For Love of a Queen and a Thief
by Lala Kate
Summary: A series of Outlaw Queen drabbles I have been posting on tumblr. Some are connected, some are not. :) I hope you enjoy all of them.
1. Expectations

**Expectations:**

She had expected the backaches, the bloating and discomfort, even the mild nausea that persisted for weeks on end. She had anticipated the frustration of waistbands not fitting, of coats refusing to button, of her breast spilling over what used to fit like a second skin.

She had known what her decision would cost her, to bear his child in secret, to live in relative seclusion, to protect and shelter Henry, Robin, and Roland from a vendetta she had believed long-buried and forgotten. She understood loneliness, was well-acquainted with misery and regret, knew how to press through despondency for the good of at least one who could not survive without her.

But the unfettered joy that bubbled across every nerve and atom at her daughter's first kick, ,making her believe anything was possible, giving her both a reason and the courage to allow herself to hope once more—that was unexpected.


	2. Dreams

Dreams:

He stares at her with an expression into which she instantly dissolves, his gaze moving from her face back to his tattoo, the awestruck wonder in his eyes striking deep places.

"It was me?" His question that cuts through calloused layers, exposing new skin and a youthful heart, and she shivers, feeling naked before him even though she remains fully clothed.

"Yes," her response, her eyes as full as her heart, her soul brimming over until she trembles with the force of feeling freshly scrubbed. Then he kisses her again, and she trembles for other reasons as barriers are discarded and all is laid bare between them, secrets revealed, mysteries tasted and savored with near reverence. She is his as she has been no others, holding nothing back as fear is discarded and hope is embraced.

Then she awakens as she does every morning, alone save the living reminder growing daily within her, rounding her form, softening her edges. She is his, as well, this baby never expected, this daughter crafted by firelight, this child he will never know.


	3. Deep in Thought

#52: Deep in Thought

He cannot shake the images that come at him out of nowhere, their frequency increasing at an alarming rate, their intensity shaking him to his core.

She left without explanation, disappearing from his life so abruptly he still feels as though he is missing a limb. The pain of separation is still raw, so close to the sensation of mourning it both stuns and shames him. His wife is now here—alive and breathing—mother to their son as is the natural order, as is right, as it should be.

Then why does his life seem so off-kilter?

He knows why.

It burrows into every nerve, this longing to gather her up to his chest yet again, to breathe words of love he feels and reassurances he can no longer offer, to lose himself in eyes that have seen too much, to bury the past inside of her as they create something beautiful and new together. She became a part of him that night, flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood, a love pure yet now forbidden that leaves him torn and unsure.

They can no longer be as one; he is married, he is promised, he is again a husband as well as father. That is his life. That is his responsibility. They are his family.

But Regina…


	4. Illusion

#45: Illusion

She sees it daily, the forced nature of his smile, the tension creasing his eyes, the downward turn of his mouth as he stares into nothing, and she knows he is thinking about someone else.

He is thinking about _her_.

How a man like Robin could care for a woman such as she is too much for her to comprehend, and the knowledge grips her like a vice, making her seethe with a jealously a wife should never have to experience.

It's a spell, she reasons, and enchantment, but she doesn't believe her own deception, seeing genuine desperation written on his every pore, feeling tension radiate off of him as they lie together yet separate in bed. He hasn't touched her since she has returned, not as his wife, not as his lover, and she somehow knows he has touched Regina like that, that he has been a part of her intimately, that they have crested together and cried each other's names to the moonlight and stars.

She has known hate before, and she recognizes its taste, bitter yet addictive, burning her insides with the intensity of strong drink, clouding her reason, stealing her joy. She should be happy—the witch is gone—but her presence lingers, her aftertaste staining her lips when Robin brushes her mouth, her name breathed unconsciously in his sleep, the queen's memory stealing her life all over again.


	5. Precious Treasure

#36: Precious Treasure

She remembers the moment she first suspected, the unsettled rumbling of her stomach, a fatigue she couldn't shake, a heightened tenderness in her breasts, her back regressing into a constant state of discomfort, her moods more irregular than usual, the urge to cry a force she almost could not withstand.

She knew life grew within her before a test ever confirmed it, just as she knew she had to flee his presence before the babe's existence became known.

Just as she knows the child she carries is a girl, just as she knows this baby has magic, her growth draining Regina of reserves both physical and super-natural. Had her mother experienced the same sensations when both she and Zelena grew in her womb?

But there are still mysteries enough concerning her daughter, ones that both intrigue and alarm her. Will her hair be black or blonde, or some shade of brown in between? Will it curl or hang straight? Will it tangle stubbornly or glisten in the sunlight? Will the eyes that gaze back at her be her own or his, and if they are blue, will she able to stare into them without shattering internally? Will she have dimples that match those of her half-brother, that precious boy she will never know? Or will she look like none of them, a child completely independent of the mother and father who gave her life?

Will she be a good mother? Will she be enough for this child created in love and firelight, one she prays wills wield light magic, one she will instruct to be strong, one she already know to be a precious treasure beyond compare?


	6. Dustings of Truth

_An independent drabble posted on tumblr. Hope you enjoy. :)_

* * *

She stores it in a glass vial shoved under her pillow at night, her fingers clasped around it as if it offers some sort of protection in the dark. Mommy wouldn't like it, she fears, so it is thrust into a pocket in her mattress in the mornings, carefully tucked out of sight, her faithful sock monkey instructed to guard it with his life.

Pixie dust is valuable, she knows, worth more than even diamonds, or so Tinkerbelle says. She would be in trouble if they knew she took some—even Mommy would be angry with her, and she would probably have to give it back. But she needs it to find him. Her Daddy—her Papa—the one Mommy still cries over when she thinks no one can hear her, the one Tinkerbelle has told her she looks like even with her dark eyes that match her mother's.

Pixie Dust can find your true love.

She has heard Mommy and Tinkerbelle talk about it many times when they believed she was asleep. Yes—she has magic—magic even Mommy doesn't know about, but it's not strong enough to lead her to their true love-the person who should be with her and Mommy, the one she wants to hug and feel kiss her cheeks, the one who should read bedtime stories to her and tuck her in at night.

The man who can make Mommy smile again.

She will test it tomorrow—she thinks she finally has enough. She then smiles and lets her eyes drift shut, thinking of the backpack she has filled with food and her favorite blanket, certain her plan will not fail, excited at the prospect of making Mommy happy.

Only pixie dust can find the person she needs. Only pixie dust can lead her to her daddy. And pixie dust never lies.


	7. Summer Lovin'

He's not coming.

She should have expected this, should have known better than to mess with an online dating service, but her house was too empty with Henry away for the summer, and she couldn't spend one more night watching _I Love Lucy_ reruns.

His profile had intrigued her—single dad, widower, and an architect of some renown. Of course, she had investigated him, and had been rather shocked to learn he was not only an activist and philanthropist, but the regional coordinator for _The Race for the Cure._

What in God's name had attracted him to her profile, she wonders, staring down at her new dress, knowing she is out of her league. Elementary School Principals don't end up with wealthy widowers, she repeats silently, and she berates herself yet again for agreeing to meet him at this chic restaurant overlooking the beach.

She sighs and puts down the wine list, calculating how she can make a hasty exit unnoticed by the maître d.

"Regina?"

She turns and finds herself speechless, staring up at a man she'd like to have for dessert.

"I'm so sorry," he explains, and she wonders just how blue his eyes really are. "My babysitter fell through at the last minute, and my phone seems to be acting up for some reason. There's nothing I can do right now that can adequately make up for inconveniencing you like this, I know, but perhaps you'd allow me to try?"

"Perhaps," she manages, amazed at how composed she sounds, forcing herself to sip her water rather than finish it off in one gulp. "But I should warn you. I can be rather difficult to impress at times."

A roguish set of dimples nearly take her out as he sits across from her, his brow raising in synch with hers.

"I suppose we could always start with a drink," he suggests, licking his lips in a way that makes her feel half-buzzed.

Perhaps the summer won't be such a waste after all.


	8. Purple Reign

**someonethatiamnot**** said:**

OQ. Purple. Library. "No, not that one. This one."

**Purple Reign: **

"No, Daddy! No, not that one. This one."

He shakes his head in confusion, attempting to pull down the correct book from the shelf, tossing her a look over their daughter's head that warns her not to laugh.

"I thought you wanted _Pinkalicious_," he states, watching light brown curls shake vehemently in response.

"No," the girl giggles. "_Purplelicious_, Daddy. Purple."

"There's a _Purplelicious,_ too?" he questions, his cheeks puffing out in an exhale. "Just how many of these damnable color books are there?"

The librarian shoots him a look from her desk as Regina quirks a brow of reprimand in his direction.

"Watch your language," she whispers, stepping in closer at the roll of his eyes.

"As if she hasn't heard you say worse," he retorts, refusing to look away as her eyes narrow dangerously. He locates the book and places it into eager hands, turning to leave before it is shoved mercilessly back into his face.

"Let's get _Silverlicious_ instead. Ok, Daddy?"

He sighs and tosses the purple book onto the nearest table, the librarian clearing her throat loudly enough to draw attention from other patrons.

"You're going to get us kicked out," Regina cautions, retrieving the book fastidiously.

"Heaven forbid."

He then pulls an entire stack from the shelf, handing them to his daughter whose brown eyes widen in delight.

"All of them?" she queries, making her mother shake her head in disbelief. "Really, Daddy?"

"All of them, princess," he returns with smile, avoiding Regina's gaze like the proverbial plague. "Reading is good for your mind."

"We own half of those, you realize," Regina mutters as they approach the check-out desk, feeling more than hearing his ragged exhale.

"Just get out the damn library card and smile," he instructs, making her heart swell a bit larger as he lovingly picks up their daughter, books and all.


	9. Guess How Much I Love You

_In response to a prompt on tumblr requesting the use of the phrase: "I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow."_

_I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

She hears him as she makes her way towards their bedroom, his words sneaking out through the crack in the nursery door.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow," he breathes into fresh, black hair, the form of their newborn daughter gazing back at him in wonder. Her heart flutters in silence as she spies on this moment between father and daughter, pressing it into her memory, filing it away to remember when more difficult times descend as they always do.

She's walking now, their baby girl, and the stairs are blocked by gates. Cushions are propped at angles around the house, and her grin is now slobbery as yet another tooth pushes its way through.

But the words spoken at bedtime are the same, repeated every night in secret, making her heart swell exponentially every time she manages to overhear them.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow," he whispers, holding her close to his chest, their daughter giggling and pinching his nose in return.

Preschool arrives, and he's loathe to drop her off the first day, trusting her teacher but hating the way she clings to his legs when he attempts to walk away. No matter how many times Regina tells him she'll be alright, he wavers and delays, his own eyes red and teary as small hands fist into his shirt.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow," he assures her, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

"Then don't leave," she cries, pressing her face to his shoulder, effectively slicing him into.

Kindergarten is easier, as are First and Second Grades. But in Third Grade, they discover she needs glasses, and she's self-conscious of her new appearance, no matter how adorable she looks.

"Tobias made fun of me today," she hears her daughter confide to her father. "He said my glasses make me look like a bug."

"Tobias is an idiot," Robin states matter-of-factly. "And no matter what anyone says, always remember…"

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow."

The mantra is recited by both of them now, and Regina wipes her eyes yet again, wondering how she ever managed to deserve such happiness. She probably doesn't, she tells herself, but she's thankful for it all the same.

Middle school brings hormones and attitude, and she argues more with her daughter than she ever has with her sons. It's exhausting, infuriating, and pushes her to limits she'd never faced in the Enchanted Forest.

But she hears her child crying over a boy to her father, and she watches as he pulls her into his lap as he did when she was smaller, caressing her hair and soothing her spirit with his own kind of magic.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow," he reminds her, his tone soft and understanding, and she feels her own tension ebbing away.

"I know, Daddy," she manages through sniffles and coughs. "I love you, too."

She slips away before she is discovered.

Here they stand in front of a dormitory, the honors dorm they were told by her advisor, a place very few freshmen are granted permission to call their home away from home. Her bags have been delivered, her roommate introduced, and they stand huddled together as the last sparrow leaves the nest to take to the skies on her own.

They hug, tears flow, and he whispers something to her, something that makes her sob harder but smile all the same, and Regina is certain of what he has said—the same words that have been shared between them since she drew her first breaths. They all link pinkies, and then she turns away, walking towards a new life she must craft for herself, leaving them truly alone together for the first time in their lives.

His arms snake around her waist, and he holds her steady as she cries, walking her gently to their car before he pauses just outside the door.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow," he tells her with a teary grin, one that's only improved over the years, one that still gets to her just like it did when they were first married.

"Me, too," she manages, the words sticking in her throat. "Me, too."

He kisses her then and there with all the ferocity that he did the first time that they kissed in the forest, not caring if they draw they eye of curious co-eds strolling by on the sidewalk or other parents saying their good-byes.

She is his wife. He is her lover. They are time-tested soul-mates who have forged a life and a family out of the shards of loss and second chances.

And he now whispers those same words to her every night in their bed as they cradle into each other, allowing sleep to overtake them in soft wisps and strokes.

"I love you today more than I loved you yesterday and a lot less than I'll love you tomorrow."


	10. No Man's Land

_In response to a request to write anything from the missing year. I hope you enjoy. _

* * *

She doesn't know he's here.

He's been watching her for minutes now, her form nearly hidden in shadow, only the crispness of the night air giving away the fact that she breathes. She's more beautiful than he's ever seen her—hair unbound, feet shod in flat, silken slippers, her face pale and natural in the moonlight. She's a vision, something unearthly, something just out of his reach.

And he cannot get enough of her.

Her arm wraps around her middle, the first movement he's seen her make since stumbling upon her in the quiet of the witching hour. She looks as if she's holding herself together, as though she might break into if she were to let herself go, and he senses her whispered sigh against his cheek as it floats towards the stars, making him wonder if everything about her is magical.

Her eyes are fixed on the pair in the garden, Snow and Charming, he sees, and he watches as the couple huddle together, David's hand coming to rest on his wife's rounding middle as she leans in and kisses his cheek.

His heart clinches at the stoic expression she attempts to maintain, even when no one is observing her—no one except him, that is.

Is she thinking of her son?

She must be. She thinks of him constantly, more than she will admit to, he is certain.

Something glistens in the light, and he realizes it's a tear falling down her cheek, the small crystal finally dripping to the stones at her feet, a shimmering testament to the fact that she is fully human.

Yet she does not move, save her chest taking in air. She is hurting. But she is alone.

She doesn't have to be—it's her choice, this armor in which she seals herself, this moat of distance she has channeled to keep everyone at arm's length. Yet he's spied the chinks in her fortress, has witnessed how Snow can convince her to listen, has marveled at how she looks at Roland with the expression of a mother.

Many see her as an evil queen. But he sees her as a woman whom evil has scarred.

The couple's laughter carries towards them, and he sees them make their way back towards the castle, yet she still stands immobile, almost as if her feet have grown roots and her body morphed into marble.

"I know you're there," she states without looking in his direction, and he starts at her words before a small smile creeps up the side of his face. "Didn't anyone ever tell you it's rude to stare?"

He usually has a comeback, but tonight he is silent, knowing she's in a vulnerable position, one she must detest.

"I'm afraid I can be a bit of a slow learner," he shrugs as he reaches her side. Her head drops, her eyes stare at her feet, and he wonders how he has never realized just how petite a woman she is.

"You said it," she retorts, clearing her throat in an attempt to rid it of emotion. "Not me."

Then his arm slips around her, not tight, but secure, and he feels her shoulders sag as if the weight of the world rests upon them. She doesn't fight his hold, but rather leans into him, and he knows then that she is tired, that this world is sapping the strength from her in a way most others don't understand.

"You miss your son," he states, looking up at the moon rather than into her eyes. He doesn't wish to make her feel self-conscious.

"Yes," she breathes, and her head softly rests on his shoulder. "I'm empty without him."

He feels a slight shudder ripple its way across her limbs.

"I would be, too," he assures her. He cannot imagine such pain.

She can't hold it in anymore, she's crumbling in his arms, and he gently turns her into his chest as he pulls them into the shadows, allowing her to cry under the shelter of darkness and his cloak. His hand rubs her back, his other cups her head, and she clasps his tunic as so much empties out of her body and on to his shirt.

He will not speak of this tomorrow, not even to her unless she brings it up first. For by then, her persona will be firmly in place—hair up, cosmetics applied, shoes amplifying her height to bolster an aura of supreme authority.

But right now, he'll allow her to be fragile, will hold her as long as she needs, will let her weep in secret until all tears are spent. For here with him, she is not an evil queen, not a sorceress to be feared nor a woman with no heart. She is simply a mother missing her child.

And he is simply the man who has come to love her.


	11. Popping a Gasket

_In response to a prompt I received on tumblr. :) I hope you enjoy this little episode shamelessly inspired by one of my favorite episodes of "Everybody Loves Raymond."_

* * *

"Sheriff Locksley. What brings you here this afternoon?"

Her voice rubs his spine like leather on a mission. He takes his time looking up at her, enjoying every line and curve more than he should, adoring how frustrated she gets when he makes her wait on him for any reason whatsoever.

"Roland and I are selling popcorn for the Boy Scouts," he answers with a sly grin in her direction. "We're covering this shift for our troop."

Her lips tighten as her eyes narrow in his direction, taking in the quality of their display and Roland's thousand-watt grin that would probably sell a million boxes in thirty minutes flat.

"What brings you out and about on this fine day, Mayor Mills?"

She sizes him up, her eyes narrowing until they're nearly as tight as her ass. He's baiting her. She can feel it.

She hates it when he does that.

"Henry and I are selling popcorn, too," she smiles, feeling her lips twitch in spite of herself. "For our troop, of course."

Henry waves, Robin nods, and he leans back in his chair, hoping he appears far more casual than he feels. His pants have a way of becoming uncomfortably tight whenever he crosses paths with this woman.

"The least we can do as scoutmasters, eh?" he grins, enjoying the way her eyes spark in his direction.

"The very least," she hums, wishing he'd shove those dimples in his pockets so they would stop annoying her. "In fact, Henry and I have been the top sellers every year."

"Outstanding," Robin croons, leaning forward on his elbows, careful not to knock over the assorted boxes and tins of popcorn they have for sale. "That's quite an accomplishment. Perhaps you can offer me some pointers since this is my first time."

He watches in fascination as two perfect brows arch at ninety degree angles.

"I'd be happy to," she returns, motioning Henry forward, card table in hand. "You being an amateur, as you so aptly put it."

_Ding._ Target struck with pinpoint precision. She grins like a cat staking out a rodent convention.

"Well, since you're such an old hand at this," he tosses back, certain he hears a huffy intake of breath. "I'm sure your pointers will be unforgettable."

He stares at her like an alpha male sizing up a she-wolf and liking what he sees. Her nipples harden into points on the spot, and she clears her throat in an attempt to regain some self-control.

Shit. Just shit.

"Pointer number one," she manages, dropping her tone half an octave. "Never steal another troop's selling spot."

He shifts slightly in his seat, his forehead creasing just so.

"Sounds fair enough," Robin shrugs, his innocence almost convincing. "But Roland and I don't mind the company. We won't consider it infringing on our space if you set up beside us, will we Roland?"

"Nope," the boy answers before he scratches the top of his head. "Whatever _fringinging_ means."

Her mouth almost grins as her eyes soften on his son, Roland tossing her a thumbs up for no reason whatsoever.

"You see," he continues. "It's unanimous. You and Henry are welcome to _fringinging_ with us anytime."

He wiggles his eyebrows at her and could swear steam is starting to trickle out her nostrils. Her hand fists and relaxes repeatedly as her eyes blink a few times too often. He's getting to her.

Good. He likes getting to her.

"I think you misunderstand me, Sheriff," she states, taking two steps in his direction. "This is my spot—mine and Henry's. We've sold popcorn here every year since I first founded Troop Thirty-Three."

"Mom," Henry mumbles, clearly uncomfortable with the entire situation. "It doesn't matter. Why don't we go and set up in front of Mr. Gold's shop?"

She holds up a silencing hand towards her son.

"Because people expect us to be here, Henry," she explains. "It would be a shame to disappoint them and throw our community into a state of confusion."

The gauntlet has been tossed down—gently for the sake of their children, but it's there at his feet, nonetheless.

"Let me see if I understand," he murmurs as she moves in a step closer. "You think the town might fall into a state of disarray simply because Roland and I are selling popcorn in front of Granny's Diner?" He strokes his trim beard, making her wonder just how it would feel under her fingers…before plucking it out strand by blasted strand. "You can't blame me for being a little surprised that such a claim is being uttered from the lips of an otherwise somewhat reasonable woman."

That does it. No more Mayor Nice Girl.

"You're not from here, Sheriff," she retorts. "Our community has traditions that bind it together, expectations that keep us strong." She shrugs before leaning down, her palms now pressed between boxes of Movie-Style Butter and Kettle Corn. "It's my job to ensure that these traditions stay in place so we can look to the future with a firm sense of reality."

Roland slides around the table to stand by Henry, the two of them watching wide-eyed as if a wrestling match is about to ensue.

"A firm sense of entitlement, I think you mean," he hums, standing and bending to her level so that they are nearly nose to nose. "Whoops. Did I say that?"

"You did," she hisses, her breath on his cheek making him want to both throttle and kiss the hell out of her. "Of course, one cannot expect much better from a man who smells like forest."

"Uh-oh," Roland whispers, stepping back two paces. "That's not good."

"Ironic, isn't it," he fires back under his breath. "Because this is exactly the sort of behavior I would expect from a spoiled, immature brat who likes to play dress up in over-stated power suits and wear heels that should break her neck."

"Oh crap," Henry breathes, moving to stand just beside Roland. "This is not going to end well."

"Don't forget who you're dealing with," she returns, her forehead a mere inch from his. "I can have you forcefully removed from this spot with a snap of my finger."

"Is that so?" he questions, leaning in even closer. "And just who are you going to get to enforce that order, Mayor? I am the sheriff, if you remember."

"You're a thief," she breathes, her chest pumping up and down. "You stole my spot."

"And you're more of a domineering queen than a mayor," he hisses, her body heat radiating palpably off of his.

"Why are there people watching?" Roland whispers, nudging Henry's elbow. The older boy looks over his shoulder, noting the small crowd daring to gather around the outskirts of their family drama.

"Probably to place bets on who will cave in first," Henry shrugs, just before inspiration strikes. "You know, you and I could work the crowd and sell popcorn."

"Fifty-fifty?" Roland asks, crossing his arms over his chest as his eyes light up at the prospect.

"Fifty-fifty," Henry affirms, the two of them shaking hands. "You know, I wish my mom would just admit that she has a huge crush on your dad. It would make things a lot easier."

Roland sighs heavily, his curls bobbing up and down.

"My dad has the hots for your mom," the child states. "Big time. He just needs to man-up already."

They stare at their parents, the adults' eyes still locked, their stances unchanged.

"Ten dollars says that Regina knocks him flat," a voice murmurs into Henry's ear. "After Robin lays one on her, that is." He turns to spy Granny Lucas watching the exchange playing out in front of her diner, dangling a twenty dollar bill in the boys' direction. The scouts gaze back at her, their mouths nearly as round as their eyes.

"And give me a tin of caramel corn while you're at it," she orders before tossing them a wink. "I think your parents are going to be good for business."


	12. His Lady

He doesn't care.

She is warm and soft and smells like wild berries and flowers, and her arms are strong and warm. They are safe, these arms that hold him, the fingers that stroke his hair, the hands that comb his curls and mend his trousers in the privacy of her chambers. They possess magic, her hands, a magic she wields for him, for his Papa and the others around her.

This he knows.

She will fight to protect him, and when he cries she holds him close, the way a mother should, he thinks. She is softer than his Papa, her hair, her chest, even her hands, and there is something about that he needs now at night, something he hadn't known he was missing until he'd experienced it for himself. She lets him sneak into her room at bedtime, cradling him, rubbing his back if he's frightened, even singing softly in his ear when she's certain no one else is listening.

He loves it when she sings.

Papa doesn't seem to mind that he spends time with her, even though he looks at her funny sometimes, the same way the prince looks at his princess when he thinks no one is looking. It's strange how grown-ups forget that children can see things, too.

He'd called her Mama once.

She'd told him that he couldn't do that anymore—that his Papa wouldn't like it, and he'd asked her not to tell him, that he didn't want to upset his Papa. She'd sworn it would be their little secret and had drawn him close before telling him a story about the little train that could. Trains must be magic, he'd thinks, no matter what she says, and he'd closed his eyes that night with a smile on his face, thinking perhaps one day she would be his Mama, and he would be her boy. But he'd heard her crying later, felt tears drip into his hair.

So he'd told his Papa, and he hadn't been upset. Instead, he'd told him about her own little boy—one now lost to her in that other world, one she missed so terribly it sometimes made her cry. It was then he knew.

She needs him, too.

So he doesn't care that some people call her evil, that others bow or step back from her, that people whisper things about his Papa and her when they think he can't hear them. He doesn't care if he misses playing with other children to make her necklaces of flowers and leaves, necklaces she wears proudly as he races to sit beside her every night at dinner. For to him, she isn't a queen or a monster or a sorceress to be feared. She's his Gina.

And once again cradled between her voice and warm blankets, he falls asleep.


	13. His Guardian

_This is connected to His Lady, but is based on spoilers and speculation for upcoming episodes of 4B. Just so you know. :)_

* * *

He doesn't know what to do.

His Mama just disappeared and turned into somebody he doesn't know, a crazy woman with red hair who is threatening his Papa and making Emma mad. He screams and cries, pointing his finger at her, begging her to bring back his Mama, wanting her to go away.

But his Mama is dead. She has always been dead. His tummy starts to hurt.

He's running now, as fast as he can until somebody grabs him and holds him close, rubbing the back of his head like his Mama used to do, whispering in his ear that it will all be alright.

It's Gina. He cries into her coat, and she hugs him even tighter.

He pushes her away then, terrified that she will change, too, that she's not really his Gina, not really the woman who protected him from flying monkeys or sang lullabies to him when they were staying in the castle. What if she's another bad person pretending to be his Gina and trying to take him away?

"Papa!" he cries, and he feels his daddy pick him up. He's crying, too, his face and beard are wet, but Roland knows he is also angry.

The witch tricked them. She tricked them all. She's a very bad woman.

He doesn't remember getting into the van, but Gina leans in to help him into the car seat, and he lets her, even though he wants his Papa.

"I'm right here, Roland," Papa whispers before moving in to kiss his cheek. "I'm not going anywhere."

"You're not going to disappear, too?"

He's crying again, he can't help it, and his Papa wipes his cheek, kissing the top of his head until he settles back down.

"No," Papa tells him. "I'm not going to disappear. And neither is Gina. She'll never leave you again."

He's not sure what that means, but he sits back in his seat, watching as Papa moves into the spot beside Gina in the front of the van. His eyes are heavy, he has to sleep, and he dreams about the forest and Little John, about his pet rabbit back in their other world and the flowers he picked for Gina after she gave him the toy monkey.

Then the van stops, and they are back in Storybrooke. He is frightened again.

He reaches for his Papa, and he takes him, letting his head rest on his shoulder as he and Gina whisper about what they should tell him now and what should wait until later. He isn't sure what they mean, but he doesn't care. He just wants to be safe with his Papa.

And he wants the bad woman he thought was his Mama to go away.

They take him to Gina's house, and she makes him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with apple slices and a cookie, just the way he likes it. She sits by him quietly while he eats, and he's glad she's here, even though he doesn't want her to touch him yet. What if Papa was wrong? What if she disappears and maybe even takes him with her?

"Where's Papa?" he asks as she pours him another glass of milk. He holds on to the counter, just to make sure he can't be poofed away.

"He's gone to get your things," she answers, wiping her cheek again. "The two of you are going to stay here from now on."

He stares at her and wonders why she's looking at him like he might disappear, too.

"Is that alright with you, Roland?" she asks him, coming back to sit beside him. "If you and your Papa stay with Henry and me?"

He likes Henry—Henry makes him laugh and taught him how to play Hide and Seek and Mario Cart. And Gina makes him feel safe, just like Papa does.

"Yeah," he tells her, and she smiles at him. He'd forgotten how pretty she is when she smiles. She's nodding and trying not to cry, and he pushes his milk towards her.

"It will make you feel better," he tells her, and she laughs then, picking up his glass and taking a small sip from it.

"You're right," she says. "It does."

Papa comes back, and Henry shows up later with two pizzas and a cherry pie from Granny Lucas. They eat and watch _Scooby-Doo_, and Roland sits by his Papa the entire time, holding him, touching him, making certain it's really his Papa, making sure that he doesn't go away.

Papa holds Gina the same way, he notices. And Henry is watching them all.

He's tucked into Henry's bed for the night, and he sleeps at first, hugging his toy monkey to his chest. Gina told him earlier that she put a charm on it so no one could hurt him while he's sleeping, and he believes her. But she didn't try to sing to him tonight, even though she kissed the top of his head and told him to have sweet dreams. She let his Papa sing to him instead.

He likes Gina's voice better.

But now Roland is awake, and he's frightened. Even with his monkey. Even with Henry sleeping beside him. Even with the small light burning on the wall.

He walks into the bedroom where Papa and Gina are sleeping, and he moves to the bed, standing there in the dark, almost afraid to move. Will they get mad at him for waking them up? Will they make him go back to Henry's room?

He starts to cry, but then the covers are pulled back, and he sees that Gina is awake. She's not angry—she's smiling at him, letting him in the bed, and he crawls in beside her, remembering how good it felt when she let him do this at the castle when he couldn't' sleep. She wraps them up in blankets and pillows and hugs him close to her body.

"You're safe, sweetheart," she whispers, and he knows that he is. Gina will protect him—she has always protected him. He wonders if she's his guardian angel as he snuggles into her chest and lays his head on her arm, loving the way that she smells, glad that she's promised never to leave him again.

"Go back to sleep, Roland."

He does what she asks, smiling as she breathes silently over him, _My sweet boy_ the last words he hears before dreams overtake reality once more.


	14. Story-time

"Roland," Ms. Belle smiles. "I see you brought a visitor to story-time today."

He feels ten feet tall as he holds his new mother's hand, not certain why his Gina seems so nervous.

"Yeah," Roland grins. "I brought my Mama. I thought she could read a story to us."

A few of the children scoot back away from the pair of them, and he wonders why his Mama's hand is so cold.

"I understand if you think this is a bad idea," his Mama says. "If you'd like me to leave…"

"No," Ms. Belle cuts in."We'd love you to read a story to us, wouldn't we children?"

Nobody says a word. In fact, his friends scoot back even further. Roland thinks they must be in awe of his Mama. She used to be a queen, after all. and she is the mayor, which is kind of like a queen.

At least it seems that way to him.

"What book did you bring today?" Ms. Belle asks, and he feels his Mama's hand shake in his own.

"_Ferdinand the Bull_," Roland beams as his Mama holds it up for the other children to see. "It's my favorite."

"It's one of my favorites, too," Ms. Belle smiles, and Roland begins to bounce on his heels, more excited than he's been since the last time they got ice cream and played _Mario Cart_ until way past his bedtime. "Would you like to sit here, Madame Mayor?"

Ms. Belle gets up and offers her big, soft chair, but his Mama just stands there, like she's not sure what to do. Roland smiles up at her and tugs on her hand, guiding her up to the seat and climbing up in her lap as soon as she sits down. The rest of the group scoots away from them another foot or so.

"Hello, children," his Mama begins, stopping to clear her throat. "Thank you for letting me visit you today."

She sounds scared, and his Mama never sounds scared. He doesn't like to see her this way.

"Don't be afraid, Mama," he tells her, turning to touch her cheeks. "They're just kids like me, not flying monkeys like the one you saved me from."

A gasp is heard from the carpet, and one little girl moves a bit closer.

"She saved you from a flying monkey?" Millie asks him.

"Yeah," Roland answers. "She turned him into a stuffed monkey for me to play with."

"You can turn monsters into toys?" George questions, and his Mama is surprised.

"Sometimes," she answers. "It depends on the monster."

"Can you turn my little brother into a puppy?" Caroline asks, and Ms. Belle steps in, clapping her hands like she does to get everybody quiet.

"Now children," Ms. Belle says. "Roland's mother is very busy, so I think we should let her read the story to us. Alright?"

The other kids nod, all except for Lucy. She raises her hand, and his Mama points at her.

"Does it have a happy ending?" Lucy asks, looking a little bit scared herself. "The story you're going to read?"

His Mama smiles then, really smiles, and he leans into her chest as he loves to do, feeling her kiss the top of his head.

"Of course," Mama answers, hugging him even closer. "Those are the only kind of endings allowed in Storybrooke."


	15. The Sound of Silence

_This is a missing moment from Dustings of Truth. It can be read independently, but will make more sense if you've read that story. For outlawqueenluvr. :)_

* * *

Nights are hard.

During the day, Regina keeps herself occupied. There are bottles and parts of her breast pump to wash, laundry constantly filling the hamper, groceries to purchase, food to prepare, and the small backyard orchard that can only be neglected for so long before disease and rot take their toll. There are naps and feedings, baths and books, yoga and walks through the park that sometimes lead to cups of coffee in a small café topped off with few stolen moments of reading time if she's lucky.

There is the stray dog who loves her flower bed, the one who never looks the least bit repentant after she's shoos him away or threatens to turn him into sausage. There's the teenager who sees to her lawn and achingly reminds her of Henry, the teller at the local bank who dispenses advice more freely than she does dollar bills, and the flat screen TV she turns on when desperation begins to set in and pain edges along her temples.

But nights are different. Nights are beyond her control.

He is with her at the edge of twilight, surrounds her as the moon dominates the sun, reaches out to her through pudgy fingers that latch around her finger and grip her heart. She sees him in the downy head pressed to her breast, senses him as life passes from her body into the small being they created, a child he doesn't know exists, a daughter with no father, a child doomed to live apart because of her mother's past sins.

This time in the rocking chair is her one solace in the darkness, these few moments when beauty overwhelms pain, when the miraculous is too glorious to ignore and fills her with the overwhelming sensation of light magic. It seeps into her veins as milk is tugged from her nipple. It warms her skin as heavy lids flutter stubbornly, as small lips slacken and a perfect tranquility descends.

_I love you, _she whispers, the sense of her child greater than her sense of herself, the sense of _him _something she will never be able to leave behind. She strokes baby hair, breathes in the scent of her daughter, and closes her eyes, allowing herself to linger on the border between reality and the subconscious where dreams and wishes intertwine and boundaries blur.

This is when he is with her. And this is when she is forced to leave him all over again.

_I love you_, she breathes, feeling him slip through her fingers as sleep claims their child, crying out to him silently while his Little Lark snuggles contentedly into her arms.


	16. For Good

_Based on blatant speculation for the rest of 4B. Happy birthday, outlawqueenluvr! :D_

* * *

The darkness is stifling.

She's frozen, unable to move, knowing the consequences laid out before her yet unable to process just what either choice will mean for her and those she loves.

Her past has been righted to what it should have been, and she touches the man lying beside her—her lover, her companion, the father of this new life stirring within her, a life who has just made his or her presence known. Their son sleeps in a small bed beside them, a boy who was supposed to have been hers all along but was snatched from her grasp by an author out to fulfill his need for excitement.

Roland—_hers_ in this life. Not Marian's. Hers.

She stares at him, so perfect, so beautiful, and her eyes well up yet again as she sniffs back tears that would wake both him and his father. This is neither the time nor the place for such sentiment, but she cannot help the emotions sweeping over her with the force of an incoming tide. Clarity—she needs clarity and reason to navigate this bone-crushing responsibility that has fallen into hands no longer stained with blood. But they tremble all the same. They're too small for this task—too unsteady, too needy and raw.

She isn't strong enough for this. She never has been.

In this life, she has severed ties with Leopold and her mother, has declared her freedom and claimed the happiness that always seemed just out of her grasp, flitting away from her like a butterfly soaring higher than her reach. But it is not out of her reach any longer, this dream—this longing, but lying warm and solid beside her, filling her lungs with the scent of pine and earth and her heart with a love she can barely fathom.

This was what was supposed to have been her fate—before the author decided to wretch it away and toss it in another direction. Her life, their lives—treated with no more reverence that a mass of paper airplanes allowed to crash and burn for entertainment value.

She feels nearly weightless, released from the talons of darkness that both stagnated and bred inside of her until her soul was but a ragged remnant and her body but a shell. There are no regrets in this reality, no Marian, no dark curse nor unquenchable thirst for revenge—only peace. Only happiness. Only light. And it was perfect until her memory righted itself and she realized what was missing.

Henry. In this life, there is no Henry.

She's been granted the knowledge of good and evil and given the choice between two lives—two outcomes, two families. Here, she loses Henry forever, yet if she goes back to how things were, she loses this. She loses _them_. She loses herself.

How in God's name is she supposed to choose? She's never felt so insignificant in her life.

Robin stirs beside her, and she stares at his complexion, shades of silver and pewter appearing almost magical as he slumbers in the still light of the moon. He is beautiful, and she feels safe and wanted here with him, her heart red and luminous, unscathed by the evil she'd chosen in another existence.

It's a cruel joke, it must be, giving her everything she always wanted but taking away the thing she has loved most in her life. To reclaim her son by choice, she must release her newly-found son and let go of the tiny life inside of her, one known only to her, one she already loves with a force she barely comprehends. Yet she must give up this reality with Robin and wait for the one they will build in another lifetime, the one in which she fights pervasive darkness and he is forced to grieve a wife he was never supposed to have wed.

Her heart is heavier than she ever believed possible as she whispers their names in the darkness. _Robin. Roland. Henry. Father. The child she dare not name._ They are forever etched into her spirit, carved into her marrow, and she aches for them all over as one would pine for a missing limb.

Her father still lives, and her soul bleeds at the thought of what she will do if she resumes the hijacked course of her life. She swallows, pushing herself up on her elbows to catch her breath.

She cannot do this. But she must. For if she does nothing, she once again allows someone else to decide her fate. And she will not do that to herself or her family again.

The floor is cold under her feet, the chill crawling up her legs as she stands and pads quietly to the window. The moon summons her, and she gazes into its menagerie, into a crystalline forest that engulfs her in safety and the essence of home. Her hand moves to her abdomen as her eyes close in supplication, and she wonders what will happen to this child when she makes the choice she must and rewrites her story back to the way it has to be. For this baby is a child of enchantment, of the forest and magical realms. And her life is summoning her back to the reality Storybrooke.

Her insides have never felt so hollow.

She cannot filter the tears that now fall freely, and she casts one last look back at her family, allowing her heart to lead her to Roland's bedside as she leans down for a final kiss. His cheek is impossibly soft, and she breathes in the scent of his hair, feeling a tear drip onto his curls before she leans back and swallows.

_My sweet boy_, she whispers, and she lingers over him another moment, her will beginning to shatter with each rise and fall of his chest.

Robin stirs in their sheets, searching for her, finding her blanket, and she tiptoes to him, daring to touch his arm as he nuzzles into her pillow. He's not satisfied—she knows this—and he'll wake in a moment, his need for her outweighing his need for sleep. She takes one step more and leans down to his level, allowing herself a soft kiss to his lips, one that sends tingles of finality across nerves and muscle, and she steps back before he opens his eyes.

_I love you,_ she manages, barely able to stop herself from heaving as she presses herself onward before she splinters into shards on their floor. The front door is flung open, and she steps into the night in nothing but her gown, closing her eyes to the elements, chanting the incantation she pressed into memory when she learned what had to be done.

Nothing happens. Did she do something wrong?

Then she's spinning, lost in a funnel cloud of darkness, unable to breathe as if she's drowning in air. Two lives play before her—one in black and white, one in living color, and they merge together in the middle, creating a ball of static that expands until it is larger than she is. Something pushes her towards the gulf, a force that feels like a large fist pressing into her back, and she screams in protest, knowing resistance will do her no good but fighting back with all that she has. Her voice echoes in her head, and others join in—Henry's, Robin's, Roland's, her mother's, Snow's—they mix and swirl until the noise is deafening. Suddenly a silence as stifling as death descends, and she's suspended between worlds, hovering in mid-air with no safety net to catch her. Then she's falling, spiraling out of control, everything dark and light at the same time, her mind and senses so sharp they grow numb.

Her eyes open, and she pushes herself up, feeling soft cotton under her fingers and silky pajamas covering her skin. She's in Storybrooke, in her house, in her bedroom, in her bed.

Alone.

She falls backwards on to her pillow and cries, her hand moving towards a womb she is now certain to be devoid of life, her room suddenly as cold as a cavern. But there's a spark of energy along her fingertips when they brush past her naval, a quickening she shouldn't feel, but she does nonetheless.

It can't be. Or can it?

Blankets are thrown back, and she races to the bathroom, conjuring a small, white stick with magic she possesses once more. It lies flat on her palm, and she gazes at it as if it's alive, wondering what it will tell her, afraid of allowing her hopes to climb too high.

But they climb nonetheless. And she is not disappointed.

She practically runs out of her bedroom, unsure of what or whom she will find. She races to Henry's room first, and he is there, in his bed, sprawled out and lanky, half under his blankets, half on top of them. Laughter presses her way up her chest, and she bites her lip to stifle it, wanting to wake him but unwilling to disturb his rest. Her son. Her Henry. Back with her where he belongs.

Then she sees him, and her heart nearly stops.

He's there beside Henry, half-buried in covers and stuffed animals, but his curls give him away, and she's frozen, speechless, staring at the wonder before her. She tiptoes to the side of the bed and gapes at the boys in wonder, the sight of Roland and Henry together too much to take in.

Her children. All of her children. Here. With her. In her present. Her hand rests on her stomach again.

It is the smell of coffee that tugs her away from them and towards the stairs, the promise of who awaits her in the kitchen enough to make her nearly slide down the banister just like Henry used to do. She's nearly breathless when she reaches the doorway, her hair in her eyes, her feet bare and cold. But she doesn't notice, not really, not when he's just there, standing in front of the stove, a skillet in one hand and a spatula in another, wearing a tank top and boxers.

He turns then and smiles at her, and she sees that he knows—he remembers—nothing is lost between them. There is so much to say, but words will not come, only his name passing over her lips as he frees his hands and deliberately pulls her into his chest.

They remain like this for what seems like both seconds and forever, and he kisses her hair, breathing her name over them as a benediction. Foreheads connect, noses touch, fingers lace together. Her heart is full, her womb alive, and her eyes shine as they look back into ones that love her. There is so much to tell him, so much to ask, but for now she will just hold him and let him embrace all that she is.

For he is the man who loves her. And here with him and their children, she is home for good.


	17. Snow Falls

_In response to a prompt received on tumblr in which Robin and Regina adopt an older child. Don't hate me._

* * *

They hadn't meant for it to happen.

There had been numbness, a bleak unreality, a fog that refused to lift as a hard truth hit with a finality that could not be undone. Snow and Charming were gone—dead, their lives given in an act of selfless courage that ensured the safety of everyone they held dear. If was fitting, somehow, yet senseless and tragic, and Regina had felt something inside her crack open as she realized what she'd lost, whom they'd all lost, who they now must mourn as no magic could bring them back.

Storybrooke was darker, now. And in the aftermath, there stood a child. A boy—somewhere between his fourth and fifth birthday. A son now without parents.

Neal.

Regina had been the first to see him amidst the wreckage, to pick him up, to cradle his head, to take his hand and lead him to her house where he could be away from the chaos and debris, where he could cry and scream as loud as he wanted. And she just held him to her chest, letting him sob, letting him yell, letting him ruin her best blouse with snot and tears without saying a word as she rocked him back and forth on the sofa until time meant nothing.

He'd slept there that night, had refused to let go of her, had begged to sleep in her bed between her and Robin, and they'd let him, of course, huddling together in the middle of the mattress without thinking, all of them somewhat numb, their minds full of those they could never get back.

He'd refused to go home the next day, had thrown a tantrum when Emma had tried to convince him to go with her, so he'd stayed a week with Regina and Robin, sometimes only responding to Roland while he shut out the grown-ups, sometimes clinging to Regina, following her as closely as her own shadow, other times curling up in Robin's lap as the man read to him in a voice both soothing and deep, rubbing his back as he always had Roland's, earning his trust in a way that made Regina's heart ache.

Then Emma had shown up at their doorstep at one thirty a.m., a teary Neal in tow, and she fell apart a she explained how he couldn't sleep at the loft anymore, how she'd found him rocking himself on the floor, inconsolable, and Regina had scooped him up and promptly taken him to Henry's room—the room he'd somewhat claimed as Henry had been staying with Emma during this time—and she'd stroked his fair head and hummed until he slept, unable to hold back her own tears at how much he resembled his father.

"I'll watch over him," she whispered to the ceiling, thinking of the two who'd become her family through fire and blood, missing them with everything she had. "You have my word."

It had progressed from there.

Neal began to eat better and smile more often. He'd take walks with Emma and drink milkshakes at Granny's. He'd fish with Leroy and whittle with Marco, play hide and seek with Ruby and have mock-sword fights with Killian. But at the end of the day, he went home with Regina and Robin.

And if anyone thought about questioning this fact, they didn't say a word.

It happened on his birthday, when the entire town had gathered at Granny's for a celebration truly fit for a prince, after everyone had paid tribute to his parents before celebrating life with this child who had already lost so much, after he'd opened his gifts one by one until he came to the one from his sister.

"Look, Mommy," he'd exclaimed without batting an eye. "It's my mama's bow!"

The hush in the room was overwhelming as gazes shot in their direction, shocked, speechless, accusing, and mute. Regina hadn't been able to breathe, the internal trembling nearly rocking her from her seat as Robin's grip tightened around her.

"What's wrong?" Neal asked, his little chin starting to wobble. The look of panic in his blue eyes snapped her into action, and she ruffled his straight, blonde hair, cupping his cheek with the touch of a mother as she smiled back at this boy who was becoming her own.

"It's perfect," she stated, her eyes welling up as he beamed back at her.

That night it had been she who had cried herself to sleep.

They discussed it over coffee the next morning in hushed tones and stolen glances, had approached Henry with the idea first, half-terrified of mentioning it to anyone else, especially Emma and Killian. But it had been Emma who had come to her that afternoon, her cheeks wet and streaked, her tone as unsteady as her legs as she thanked them for becoming the parents Neal needed when his own had been taken away.

"Mom…" she began, her words engulfed by a sob before she cleared her throat. "Mom would have wanted this."

Somehow, she knew this was right.

They made it official six months later, one week after marking the anniversary of a loss so profound it would always be felt. It was done with Emma's blessing, with Henry's smile and Roland's approval, with hugs from a blonde-headed, blue eyed prince now officially a part of two families who would love and defend him with everything they had.

No—they hadn't meant for it to happen, to add to their family through tragedy and death. But when her new son looked up at her with trusting eyes and a smile just like his mother's, Regina knew that Emma had been right.

Snow would indeed approve.


	18. Study Buddies

She first met the girl one afternoon in her kitchen, the table covered with scattered textbooks and paper, Henry typing away at his laptop as a young woman she didn't know leaned over his shoulder.

"I don't think I've been introduced to your friend, Henry," Regina hummed, feeling every nerve snap to full alert as she eyed the first girl her son had dared to bring home. She was pretty—_too_ pretty, and that could spell trouble with a capital _T_.

"Mom," he returned, gesturing towards the girl in an off-handed manner. "This is Amelia. Her dad owns the shoe store off of Main Street—you know, the one you always take your favorite boots to when they need resoling?"

"_Sole Repair_?" Regina questioned, taking in the girl's tight chocolate curls and mocha complexion. Her black-rimmed glasses only served to make her look intelligent and add to her understated charm, charm she couldn't help but wonder if her son had fully noticed. "Silas Shoemaker's shop?"

"Yes, ma'am," Ameila replied with a small smile that just reached her dark eyes. She was soft-spoken, it would seem, and evidently either somewhat awed or frightened from standing in the presence of the former Evil Queen. Good. She needed a bit of leverage if Henry was bringing a potential girlfriend into the picture.

"Amelia and I were assigned to be partners for a science project," Henry explained. "We thought we'd come here and work since the library was full of kids tonight because of story time."

_That's right_, she thought to herself, remembering then that Robin and Roland were going straight from little league practice to Belle's weekly evening of fairy tales and classics for young readers. That gave her a bit more time to see to final dinner preparations, time she could now also put to use keeping a close eye on this study-session as she cut vegetables and poured wine.

"So you're study-buddies," Regina stated, watching for any tale-tell signs that Henry wasn't being entirely forthcoming about their relationship.

"Yeah," Henry shrugged, evidently losing interest in their conversation as he pointed to something on the screen that immediately caught Amelia's attention. There was no accidental contact, no telling blush or stammered speech. She couldn't recall Henry ever having mentioned an Amelia or hearing Roland tease his big brother about a girlfriend he'd like to keep secret. He didn't seem to be paying extra attention to his appearance and hadn't been acting secretive or shady around either her or Robin recently. Perhaps the two of them were simply _study-buddies_. She mulled the description over in her brain, accepting it for what it was as she moved towards the refrigerator, taking out what she needed to toss a salad to accompany the chuck roast and potatoes she'd put in the slow cooker that morning.

"Whatever you're cooking smells amazing," Amelia chimed in, her smile so genuine it reminded Regina fleetingly of Henry's.

"Thank you," Regina returned with a nod. "It's just a roast."

"Mom's roast is killer," Henry said without thinking, pausing when he saw his mother's brows quirk up in an arch. "Delicious, I mean."

"My dad can't cook much of anything," Amelia stated with a shrug. "It's usually up to me to cook dinner, so to me, this smells like heaven."

It was the first of many evenings Amelia Shoemaker stayed for dinner with the Locksley-Mills family.

Their science project won first prize at the fair, and Amelia's father treated them all to ice cream afterwards to celebrate. He was a tall man with large hands, an easy laugh, and a smile as open and genuine as his daughter's, a girl Regina couldn't help but like, even as she kept an eye on her son's attitude towards her. Silas Shoemaker's skin was a shade darker than his daughters, his quick wit an instant draw for her husband, and the two of them were soon chatting like old friends, laughing heartily at jokes and tall tales Regina only half heard as she noticed for not the first time just how quickly her son was growing up. He was an attractive young man sitting beside a perfectly lovely young woman, eating ice cream and discussing the finer points of the robotics project that had garnered them both a blue ribbon, completely oblivious to the appreciative stares the girl was receiving from two other boys who passed through the shop.

Evidently, Henry and Ameila really were just friends. At least for now.

They soon became inseparable, and Amelia was often at their house, studying with Henry, helping Roland with his homework while Regina would tend to the new baby she loved as her own. The girl always helped with dishes if she stayed for dinner, and there were times Regina would catch Robin watching Henry and Amelia's interactions intently, the expression in his eyes making her wonder if there was something she was missing when it came to their young relationship.

She didn't think that there was. But she said nothing, and neither did anyone else.

Amelia became their pinch-hitting babysitter—she was a natural with the infant, and Roland thought she hung the moon. The boy begged her to come to one of his baseball games, and so she did, wearing green to support his team, sitting beside Henry as they boisterously cheered Roland on from the stands. Regina watched them over her daughter's fair head, but the two never moved to hold hands or rub thighs. They simply laughed and talked, acting more like best friends than a potential couple or teenagers harboring unspoken crushes.

She couldn't decide if she was relieved or disappointed.

"What do you think about Amelia?" she asked Robin later that night just after he turned off the light and slid into bed.

"She's a lovely girl," he answered. "And the best damned babysitter around. Why do you ask?"

She turned on her side until she faced him, gaging his expression in the dark.

"Do you think Henry is interested in her?" she questioned, hearing his intake of breath just beside her. "As more than a friend, I mean."

He mulled her question over a few seconds, tugging her palm up to his lips for a slow kiss before answering.

"I think if he is, he certainly has excellent taste," he answered, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles before tossing her a sly grin. "But of course, so does his mother."

She whacked him soundly on the chest.

Seasons passed, two years went by, and Amelia remained a near fixture in their household, her presence almost taken for granted until one night when Henry took his mother by surprise.

"Mom," he began. "Robin." They paused from washing and drying dishes, turning to face the young man now taller than both of them. "You know that prom is in a few weeks—right?"

Her heart shot into her throat as she wiped her hands on the dishtowel, breathing in and out to garner courage and steady her legs.

"Yes," she answered, sounding far more reasonable than she felt. How in God's name had her son gotten old enough to drive and go to prom? "Are you planning on attending?"

He looked down at his feet, his face turning a shade of fuchsia that made him look both adorable and guilty.

"I want to," Henry stated, lifting his shoulders just so. "But I don't want to go alone."

"That understandable," Regina mused, feeling her husband's light nudge against her side, fighting down the urge to smack him on the arm with the dish rag. "Although there's no shame in going stag."

Henry shot her a look that let her know he didn't believe that for a second.

"And just whom will you be asking to be your date for the evening?" Robin questioned, setting the plate he'd been drying down on the counter. "Anyone we know?"

"I thought," Henry began, pausing to clear his throat. "I thought I might ask Amelia."

_Study buddies, _Regina thought to herself, a part of her reaching back to that first meeting in the kitchen with a soft ache of nostalgia.

"I suppose we'd better to see to renting a tux," she managed, the hitch in her voice prompting Robin to slide his arm around her waist and squeeze.

Amelia wore a soft blue dress that complimented her complexion and made Henry's breath hitch. They were a stunning pair—her son and the cobbler's daughter, light-hearted, somewhat awkward and nervous, all smiles and jitters as they smiled for pictures and promised to honor their curfew. Regina fought tears as she watched Henry attach a pale yellow corsage to the girl's wrist just before the baby she'd once held in her arms slid one of his around a young woman she'd come to treasure, her heart cracking open one piece at a time as the two of them made their way to Robin's Jeep.

"I thought it would be safer than Emma's Bug," he whispered in her ear as the young pair drove off towards the dance, squeezing her tighter against him as a warm ache pulsed in her chest.

"He's grown up, Robin," she sighed, leaning back into arms she needed to keep her upright at times like this. "How did that happen so fast?"

"I'm not sure," he breathed, his grip tightening around her. "It happens whether we're paying attention or not, I suppose."

She tried to swallow, tried not to cry, and her body shuddered as she felt his lips touch down just to the side of her ear.

"He's a fine young man," he stated, his tone ragged yet whole. "You've done a remarkable job raising him, you know."

"I could have done better," she breathed just before he turned her into his chest and held her, stroking her hair until a high pitched wail interrupted their reverie. They reluctantly moved inside to keep their younger children from tearing down the house in ten minutes flat.

It was late the following evening when the house was finally quiet that she heard two male voices wafting in from the back yard though a cracked window. She made her way towards them as quietly as possible, leery of interrupting but too curious to stay away.

"So you kissed her?"

Robin's voice was soft and unthreatening, punctuated by a nervous cough from Henry.

"Yes," Henry admitted. "But I don't think I was very good at it."

She froze, unable to breathe or move until her husband laughed outright and clapped Henry on the shoulder.

"Your first kiss is special," Robin began. "But it's not meant to be spectacular. Those kind of kisses comes later, with time, practice and life experience. They can't be rushed."

"So you're saying I should kiss Amelia more?" Henry asked. "To practice?" She nearly choked and started to dart out the back door to end this line of conversation, stopping only when she heard Robin's tone of reason cut through to both her and her son.

"I'm saying you should always treat her with the same respect you'd want someone to treat your mother," Robin replied. "Kisses are what they're meant to be when they're shared with someone you care deeply about and respect with everything you have. They don't have to set off fireworks to be truly special."

Her knees felt like they could give out at any time as her stomach fluttered like a school girl's would.

"Kiss her only if she makes you see stars when the sun is still shining," Robin continued. "If her personality gets to you even when you're not together, if she makes you laugh and guards your secrets, if she sees your faults and still wants to hold your hand. A woman like that is a woman worth kissing." He paused then, his voice dropping a few notches before he added, "Anybody else is a poor substitute. Trust me. I know."

"Got it," Henry stated, eliciting a half-chuckle from his step-father that lapsed into a companionable silence. "And I know you do. That's why I thought you were the right person to ask."

When they came inside a few minutes later, she blamed an innocent onion for her tear stained face, fully aware she wasn't fooling either of them, even though they said nothing and simply gave her a hug. She felt warm and bereft, sandwiched between the man who loved her and the boy whose love had brought her back from a self-imposed abyss.

"Study buddies?" she muttered with a touch of sarcasm, sniffing and wiping her cheeks, joining in their mutual laughter as she held on to them for as long as she could.

"Shut up, Mom," Henry teased, hugging her closer until she was certain her heart would burst through her ribs.


	19. Debt of Gratitude

_In response to a prompt on tumblr asking for Robin to thank Emma for the sacrifice she made for Regina. I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

Night shimmers over the ivory planes of her arms, drawing her in shades of silver and pewter accented by charcoals hewn in the deep trenches of sleep. Her face is peaceful, so lovely, so carefree, and he can't help but touch her, unable to keep himself from it, counting each breath as he does sometimes when she sleeps and he lies awake under the cover of darkness.

He's afraid to close his eyes—afraid that fate will change its mind and come for her in the night, will try to steal her from him again when he's lived so long without her and hurt until he's hollow. He'd nearly lost her—again—and the dark ropes that sought her out engulf his dreams and strangle his sleep. So he keeps vigil when the moon asserts its dominance, lying awake until his humanity betrays him and forces him to rest.

She often finds him asleep sitting up in the mornings but has yet to ask him why. He thinks she probably knows.

His fingers bury themselves in the glossy strands of her hair, hair he is allowed to caress and kiss thanks to the actions of someone far braver than he.

"Thank you," he whispers to the woman still missing, the savior who had lived up to her title, the blonde who had taken the darkness in hand to keep it from destroying those she loved. He knows she can't hear him and feels terrible for being grateful it was Emma and not the woman in his arms who succumbed to the dagger, but he cannot help it. Losing Regina would be akin to losing a piece of his soul, a piece still fractured but newly sewn back into the ragged fabric of his existence, the red, pulsing thread of life that makes him a better man and reminds him what it is to truly give oneself to another.

He will continue his search for Emma, will not rest until they free her, will never release himself from this vow until it is fulfilled. But neither will he stop thanking her as his lover rests in his arms, unharmed and here with him, in spite of every reason she has to send him away. He is a man who has been given a second chance in more ways than one, he understands, one he will not waste or take for granted, one he will not let honor entrap or nudge aside. His lips brush her temple, and he settles in beside her, molding himself into her body until they form one unit of limbs and torsos.

"Thank you," he breathes a final time into the room as one arm cocoons itself around her middle, prompting her to sigh in her sleep and lean into him, making him more whole than a broken man has a right to be.


	20. Aftermath

_This was in response to a request on tumblr to continue the moment with Regina and Robin after Zelena touched him in her cell. There are mild rape references, just so you know. _

* * *

"Are you alright?"

He's stepped into a small alcove hidden within the shadow of the basement stairs, his back to her, a posture very unusual for him. He's quiet, too quiet, and his stance is forced—rigid, she notices, so unlike her thief, her Robin. She lays her palm on his back only to find that he's shaking beneath a cracked veneer of calm.

"Robin."

He won't look at her, so she maneuvers until she's facing him, somewhat relieved when he doesn't shy away from her presence. His face is crumbling, his eyes half-glazed, his pupils twice their normal size.

"Hey—it's me."

She takes his hands within her own, encasing their chill as best as she can when her fingers aren't particularly warm. She takes a step towards him until she can feel the rapidity of his breathing on her shoulder.

Is he having a panic attack? One hand moves to his face, but she stops short of touching him as he visibly flinches.

"Is it okay for me to touch you?"

His eyes meet hers for the first time, wide and alert with the fixed stare of prey. Then they falter, he falters as he shakes his head, rubbing his scalp until he finally drops his arm heavily to his side. He stands there, his breathing loud and forced, his lips pressed together so tightly they're nearly white.

Then he nods, once again unable to meet her eyes.

Her fingers move to his cheek with the gentleness of a mother, allowing him to set the pace, allowing him to lean into her palm before making full contact. He sighs into her, his eyes closing when her palm meets his cheek.

"I won't touch you unless you want me to, Robin."

A tear forms and spills down his face, wetting her fingers, making her bleed inside.

"I know."

His voice is rough, but it's there now between them, and she treasures it, wishes she could wrap them both up in it and shut out the rest of this insanity.

"I'm sorry, Regina, I don't know why…"

He breaks off, and she leans in a breath closer as he grips the hand still holding his with more force.

"She violated you, Robin. You have every right to feel this way."

His gaze travels the walls as his free hand finds his pocket, staying in place a mere second before locating his hip, his hair, restless and in want of a shelter. She feels him move away from her and watches as he paces within the small enclosure, wishing with everything she had that should could simply magic away his pain along with the woman who caused it.

"You don't have to see her unless you want to."

He pauses and stares at his feet.

"Yes I do. The baby…"

She shuts her eyes to the mired pain of their situation, ignoring the clenching sensation in her stomach. Then he faces the wall, leaning one palm against the cold, gray surface, hanging his head as his shoulders still tremble.

"When she touched me in there, gods Regina, I just felt so…so dirty, so angry, so…"

His fist flexes as his cheek twitches, anger and frustration rolling off of him in waves.

"It's like I can't get rid of her, that even when she's not around I can feel her touching me."

Images from her marriage play across her mind and body, and she shivers as Leopold's scent wafts over her senses.

"She can't hurt you anymore, Robin. I won't let her."

"But she will. And she's hurting you, too, Regina. Because of me. Because of the baby."

She knows he's telling the truth, a truth she wishes didn't exist but one to deny would be both pointless and counter-productive. She hangs her head, trying to still her anger and gather her thoughts, all the while hurting like mad for the man standing just out of reach.

"Don't leave me. Please."

The words are so unexpected they knock her back a step, but then she's next to him, facing him, touching his cheek again, feeling the dampness of his inner turmoil cascade down her skin.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispers. "Not without you, Henry and Roland. I promise you that."

Then he's weeping, trying so hard to contain what must come out, and she embraces him instinctively, relieved when he clasps her to him and holds her with everything he has. She knows time is of the essence, that Emma must be found, but she will make time for this, for him, for this man who was scarred because he loved her yet has lived through the experience and stands here with her now.

"I love you. Never forget that." He nods into her shoulder, clasping the back of her head as she buries her face in his chest. "And we will get through this, Robin. Together. Just like you said."

He can't speak, and she doesn't ask him to—she simply lets him cry as she holds him to her, backed into this dark corner away from prying eyes, encased by her lover as the first seeds of healing begin take root.


	21. Nightmares

It happens less often than it used to, thank God, but still too frequently for her liking. The sweating, the thrashing, the muffled cries and murmured words born of nightmares and stubborn demons, they mock him all too often, pulling him from the needed peace of sleep and back into the world of the wounded.

She holds him through each one, always chilled by the panic in his eyes when they first blink open, always warmed by the relief that comes from his realization that he is held by her arms and not those of another, that the lips resting on his forehead are hers and hers alone.

"Regina."

He breathes it as a prayer, a benediction, the first word of a man let out of captivity and finally breathing the free air.

"Yes," she assures him, cupping his face, stroking his hair. "It's me. There's no need to be afraid."

It takes time for his pulse to slow down, for the sweat to cool his skin, for his need to hold her tightly to relax into a sleepy embrace, but its alright because they're together, and together they are whole.

It is she who sweats tonight, lost in a myriad of jagged memories, held down by arms she never wanted, forced apart by the king who stole what should have been hers to give. She bites her lip, her tongue, wonders if the blood she tastes is real or imagined, tries to conjure magic her fingers can't create.

Then warm hands war with the specters of memory, their soothing stokes drawing her back to the land of the living, the land where she is his because she wants to be, not because anyone forced her hand.

"Regina."

Her name is a summons, an invitation to open her eyes and remember who is holding her, who loves her, who strokes her hair and kisses her temple as he has through more than one nightmare. She buries her face into the safety of his body, unafraid to lie broken with his arms holding her fast.

"It's alright," he breathes, and she nods, still crying, still clinging to her lover in the recesses of the dark. "I promise, there's no reason to be afraid."

She opens her eyes then, turning her face to look at him in what light the waxing moon allows. His eyes are silver at this time of the morning, creased from hours of sleep, so pure its nearly painful to stare into them. But his touch is grounded, his lips dry yet tender as they graze her cheek and speak words that wash over like a balm.

"They can't hurt us anymore."


	22. Homesick

_Written in response to a sentence prompt on tumblr. Dimples Queen fluff. :)_

* * *

"I don't like it here, Gina."

She wasn't expecting this, had thought he was enjoying the excitement of being in a new place full of such pageantry and adventure.

"Why don't you like Camelot, Roland?"

He looks around his bedroom before burying his face in her shoulders. Small arms slide around her neck, and she lifts him fully on to her lap, stroking curls that smell of honeysuckle and wild berries.

"It's lonely here."

She draws back just enough to look at him directly.

"But you've made several new friends here," she reminds him. "There's always someone to play with, and you love visiting the stables."

His chin starts to quiver, and her heart sinks, prompting her to pull him into her chest and kiss the top of his head.

"It's not that," he mutters. "It's just…I miss my monkey."

She pauses, cupping his face with her hands.

"Your monkey? The one I gave you?"

His eyes are welling up now, and he wipes his nose with his sleeve.

"I left him in Storybrooke, Gina, He's lonely without me, I know it. He'll get scared and he won't be able to sleep. Can't we go back home and get him with your magic?"

"I wish it were that simple, Roland. But my magic can't take us back to Storybrooke."

He starts to cry in earnest just before she kisses the tip of his nose and produces a small puff of purple smoke in her palm. It's a substitute toy–but the smile on his face lets her know that he can't tell the difference.

"But that doesn't mean I can't bring him here."


	23. Good Morning

_Written in response to a sentence prompt on tumblr. Rated M._

* * *

She's swimming, trying to reach the surface, wave after wave caressing her from the inside out as heat strokes her with smooth laps and strokes. Her skin is alight, tingling as bubbles push up from her core, her insides tightening around each other as coarseness rubs her inner thigh.

Her nipples harden into pebbles, now sore and swollen in all the right ways, responding to the swirls of his mouth between her legs, nearly rocketing her into the ceiling when his fingers clasp on to her breast. Her nightshirt has been tugged up to her chin, the cool morning air on her exposed torso doing nothing but heightening the sensations pulsing between her legs, now sprawled open, her panties discarded somewhere in the bed or on the floor.

She has morning breath, but she can't bring herself to care, not when his fingers are inside of her and his tongue is working a raw, sensual magic over every inch of where she craves him. She's under his spell completely, mouth half-open, breath coming in shallow pants, fingers fisting the sheets, his hair, her pillow, anything she can grasp, anything that will keep her anchored as her body verges on catapulting out of her skin.

Then she's seizing, crashing, being pulled under and thrust upward again, her mind shattering into white patterns and colliding shapes, her hips rocking into his mouth, his hand on her stomach keeping her steady as he feeds on her like a starving man.

"Fuck!" The word tears out of her as she jerks up and down on her pillow, unable to care as to whether or not she'd thought to silence the room as she'd been pulled from her sleep by the laps and teasing licks of her husband.

This is not how she planned to start her day. Thank God some plans are subject to change.


	24. Page 24

He's been waiting for nearly an hour, replaying their plans in his mind, silently reviewing their meeting place as he checks the tree line once again, searching for her cloaked figure, becoming more alarmed by the second when she doesn't appear.

"She's in trouble."

He spins, facing a woman he's never met—a petite blonde with tight curls clad in green—a woman who is staring him down in the darkness.

"I'm sorry, I don't…"

"Regina," she interrupts, taking two steps in his direction. "Your lover. Your soulmate. She's in trouble. That's why she isn't here."

His mouth hangs open at the frankness of her words.

"Who-who are you?"

"A friend, lucky for you," she tosses back, already walking past him. "And the reason the two of you met in that tavern a few months ago."

He's truly flabbergasted now, as Regina has impressed on him time and time again the importance of telling no one of their clandestine meetings. But this woman knows about them, about the tavern, possibly about stolen kisses and forbidden passion, of heated touches in the forest, of cries and trembling in the dark.

"Well, come on. We don't have a lot of time."

He clasps her arm and spins her around.

"Where is Regina?" he questions. "Is she with her husband? Has he—has he found out about us?"

His voice breaks on his last question, his knees nearly buckling as the blonde slowly nods.

"Shit," he utters, rubbing his hand over his scalp. "How?"

Her eyes narrow a degree.

"You left something of yours behind. Something her husband knows isn't his."

His mind is spinning so fast he's lost before they even begin moving, and he can barely keep up with her as they sprint through the forest on a route he cannot figure out. He's confused—Regina has never led him in this direction, and he fears that perhaps they're lost at time when haste is everything.

"Are you certain we're heading in the right direction?"

She stops abruptly, turning to face him with a smirk.

"I know exactly where I'm going. You're turned around because Regina didn't want you to know where she lives and always led you in the wrong direction when you thought you were escorting her home. She thought it would be safer for everyone involved."

His heart cinches tight in his chest.

"Yet here we are," he mutters, watching the blonde show fear for the first time. "About to set foot on the King's property."

His mouth dries as the woman steps deliberately over an invisible boundary he knows all too well.

"And now I'm on the king's property. Are you coming or not, Robin of Locksley?"

Shit. Of course he's coming. If Regina's in trouble, he'd scale the castle wall itself to get to her if necessary. He just wishes he knew why they're tempting fate, darting through the royal woods, acting like bandits casing the castle, unless…

The thought dissolves on his tongue, the taste of fear now strong in his mouth. _Regina._

They pick up their pace again until the castle itself is looming over the treetops, a fortress of stone and grandeur silently mocking them both. The woman stops short then and turns to face him head on, his pulse pounding so loudly in his temples he can barely make out her words.

"Wait here. I think I can get her out of the tower, but you need to be ready to move when we get back."

He dashes forward and grabs her arm, spinning her back in his direction.

"Before you take off towards whatever tower you think Regina is locked in, I need you to tell me what the hell is going on. What is it exactly that you're trying to tell me?"

The blonde's head drops, her cheeks puffing out as she exhales.

"Do you know who she is? Regina, I mean?"

He swallows as best he can with no moisture in his mouth.

"I take it as her name is Regina and we're currently standing in such close proximity to the castle that she is the queen."

His heart does a double-take as the word slips over his lips.

"She is," the blonde confirms. "A very lonely, unhappy queen until you came into her life."

He inhales, trying to steady both his mind and his nerves, understanding of the gravity of the situation they now face. This isn't merely a case of a wife being unfaithful to her husband. This is treason. This is grounds for their execution.

"What do I need to do?"

She takes his hand and lays his palm flat before setting a small leather pouch on it.

"In this bag is a magic bean, one that will open a portal to any realm you choose. Don't ask me how I got it—you probably don't want to know, honestly—but you're going to have to be ready to use it as soon as I bring her back here to you."

His eyes round at her insinuation.

"Another realm…I don't…"

"She's pregnant."

His lungs nearly collapse, air not getting into his body quickly enough to keep him from feeling light-headed.

"That's what you left behind, Robin," the blonde states gently. "Your child. Inside the young wife of an older king who can no longer father children."

His legs are numb beneath him as all his blood rushes to his head.

"That's why he locked her up? Because she's…she's carrying my child?"

Her affirming nod is grave.

"And that's exactly why we have to get her out. Tonight. She's no longer safe in the castle."

"How do you plan on doing that?"

The question is far from rhetorical—the wall in question looms in his direct line of vision. He's certain there will be guards posted at all of the strategic entrances, and anyone attempting to climb the wall itself would be shot down on sight.

"With pixie dust," she answers with a shrug. "I have just enough for her, but we're going to have to be careful and wait for just the right opportunity to make our exit."

"Pixie dust?" He licks his lips as this night becomes more and more surreal. "Wait. You're a fairy?"

His entire world is off-kilter, and he presses his hand to his forehead, attempting to sort it all out.

"In the flesh," she affirms just before drawing a bracing breath. "Listen, I know all of this is a bit of a shock, but we really need to get moving, Robin. Are you ready for what has to be done?"

He tries to swallow again as a truth far more frightening and beautiful than he ever imagined hits him squarely in the gut. The woman he loves is a queen—_the_ queen of the realm, the young bride of King Leopold. And she is carrying his child.

Regina has risked everything for him.

"I'm ready," he states, clasping the small pouch with everything he has before dropping into an inner pocket. "Keep her safe."

The fairy gives him a smile before popping into pixie form and flying off towards the castle, the woman now no more than a flickering light against the night sky. He paces, minutes morphing into hours, the wind picking up around him, the sounds of the night somehow sharper than usual, and he finds himself praying to whomever can hear, begging for her safety, pleading for her life.

He ducks behind a tree at the sound of shuffling feet, daring to peer out just long enough to see that they have finally arrived, one leading with a steady gait, the other hooded and cloaked, her eyes scanning the forest for hidden dangers.

"Regina," he breathes, running towards her, wishing he had wings and could just spirit them both away. Then she's in his arms, clasping on to him with all she's worth as he kisses her hair, her forehead, any part of her that he can find and touch.

"You're here. You came for me."

The shock in her voice nearly shatters his soul, and he leans back to cup her cheek, damp with the salty combination of sweat and tears.

"Of course I'm here," he whispers. "I wouldn't be anywhere else."

She sniffs and bites her lower lip as he nuzzles his nose just next to her temple.

"You know then? About me? About who I am?"

He draws back and kisses her lightly before nodding.

"I do."

She shakes her head and sighs heavily.

"I'm sorry. I know I should have told you, but…"

"You were trying to protect me," he interrupts, the pad of his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "And our baby."

Her hands move to her small waist instinctively, and he hugs her into chest yet again.

"Are you happy about that?"

Her question is so quiet he wonders for a moment if he imagined it, but the uncertainty in her eyes is both weighted and real.

"About having a baby with you?" he breathes. "I'm over the moon, Regina."

She truly smiles then and throws her arms around his neck, soft lips making contact with his cheek just as the fairy clears her throat. They step back from each other, both fully aware of the danger that remaining here will bring.

"We have to leave this place, Regina. Forever."

She's nodding against his chest, her body still trembling with adrenaline and emotion.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to have to leave your life and your family like this."

He leans in and kisses her softly, her breath on his lips the most beautiful sensation he's ever experienced.

"You're my family," he assures her. "You and our child. The two of you are all I need in this world."

He takes out the small pouch and presents it to her, opening the draw string with shaking fingers. It's so small, so ordinary that it shocks him. He's not at all sure what he'd been expecting, but it hadn't been something that looks so much like something he would plant in his garden.

"Throw it down," the fairy instructs. "And then be ready to tell it where you want to go. That's all there is to it."

They stare at the bean, at each other, and then at the blonde who has risked so much to bring them together. Regina steps forward and takes the other woman's hands, clasping them within her own as the two of them share a look.

"Thank you," Regina whispers. "For everything."

The fairy leans forward and hugs her, the two of them laughing softly before drawing back from each other.

"No go," the fairy instructs, dabbing her cheeks. "Before all of my hard work is for nothing."

He steps forward and takes Regina's hand in his own, leading her towards a small clearing, the bean beginning to buzz in his grip as if it knows his intentions. He sequesters his fear, knowing this is the only way they have to remain safe and to be together.

"Where shall we go, my lady?"

She looks from him back to the patch of ground and then over her shoulder towards her former life, an existence he knows brought her little joy and much pain.

"How about to a land without magic?"

He sees hope sparking where fear once dwelled, and he smiles back at her, unable to stop himself as he raises her hand to his mouth and kisses it just before tossing the bean to the mossy forest floor. A light erupts, the ground beneath them shakes, and they move back three steps as a hole forms just in front of them, one light and inviting and sparkling with possibilities.

"Sounds perfect to me," he returns with a grin. Then they step forward, breathe in and leap together, ready for whatever this new land without magic may bring their way.


	25. What Mommies Do

She jumps, the lingering warmth of sleep clinging to her body as she attempts to still her racing heart. Her breath comes in snatches, and she blinks repeatedly, trying to figure out exactly what jolted her awake.

"Roland?"

Dark orbs stare back at her, and she reaches for her glasses, trying to focus without waking the man snoring softly beside her. She hears a sniffle, registering a wobbly chin and tear stained cheeks that propel her brain into gear.

"What's the matter, baby?"

A muted sob is her answer, prompting her to swing her legs over the side of the bed and gather the boy into her body. She wraps her arms around him and stands to pick him up, feeling his pajama bottoms sopping wet against her skin.

Oh.

Stealthy steps carry them both into the hallway where she manages to nudge the door closed behind them. She can't tell which is wetter-his face or his pj's, so she kisses his forehead, damped by sweat and smudged tears.

"Roland-did you wet the bed?"

Her whisper goes unacknowledged for a second or two before he's nodding, hanging his head and dropping it against her chest with a thud.

"I'm sorry, Gina. I won't do it again. Don't tell Daddy."

Her heart wrenches at his obvious distress, prompting her to kiss his pillow-matted hair.

"It's alright, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong."

She moves to the boys' bathroom, clicking the door closed behind them. He's blubbering now, actually puffing out a sob just as she sets him down and turns on the light.

"I'm too big to wet the bed. Daddy will be upset."

She grabs some Kleenex, kneels down to his level and wipes puffy, red cheeks.

"Blow," she instructs, holding the tissue over his nose. He does as she tells him, tears continuing to stream down his face as she tosses the Kleenex into the trash can. "Your daddy will not be upset with you, Roland. I can promise you that. These things happen."

"Only to babies," he protests, the words tumbling off his protruding bottom lip.

"No," she insists, tipping his chin in her direction. "Not just to babies. It can happen to children of all ages. Especially…" She sighs, cupping his damp cheek and rubbing her thumb just under his eye. "Especially after experiencing a scare like you did this afternoon."

Her own heart thuds as images of Robin being swept away by that fury leave her trembling and cotton-mouthed. She inhales, steadying palms now clammier than they'd been just seconds earlier as Roland shudders. He doesn't speak, just continues to cry as he tries to snatch air in bits and pieces through his mouth.

"But Daddy calls me his little man," Roland protests. "He'll know I'm not one if he finds out I had an accident."

"Shhh." She tugs his _Spiderman_ top over his head, waiting for him to raise his arms before pulling it all the way off. "That's not true, Roland. And after we get you all cleaned up, you'll be as good as new."

"I stink," he utters, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"You won't after we give you a bath," she returns, standing and turning on the water. They let it run a moment before she adds his favorite berry-scented bubbles to the mix, watching as the quivering of his chin abates somewhat. "You'll smell like a strawberry shortcake."

"But my pajamas won't."

"That's what washing machines are for, Roland," she assures him as she retrieves a clean towel and washcloth from the bathroom closet. "I'll wash these first thing in the morning, and nobody will ever know the difference."

His face drops to his feet.

"I'll know. And so will you."

He pauses as she touches her forehead down to his, hating the fact that such a fearsome image is now impressed into his mind. He's been through so much at such a young age, more than any child should have to go through, and most of it brought about because of his father's relationship with her.

How many people will have to suffer because of her, she wonders again? When will it stop, this never-ending cyclone of destruction set in motion by her mother before she was even born?

"We'll take care of this," she whispers, watching as his eyes scrunch in disbelief. "We'll do it together."

He nods then-once, twice before sticking out his hand to confirm their agreement. She follows suit, and they shake hands as the bath continues to fill, relieved to see his facial muscles relax somewhat.

"Just don't tell Daddy or Henry, Gina. Please."

She sits on her knees, taking the boy's hands within her own, remembering the urgency with which she once begged another child to keep her secret safe. The situations couldn't be more different-this she knows- but a piece of his heart is at stake, a piece he's offering to her, and it's a piece she'll guard with everything she has. She knows all too well the sting of feeling betrayed.

"I won't say a word," she promises, smiling as small arms wrap snugly around her neck. "But you don't need to be afraid of your daddy or of Henry. They both understand that you've been through a lot today. And Henry did the same thing a few times when he was about your age."

That gets his attention, prompting those big eyes of his to widen even further.

"He did?"

"Yes, he did," she confirms. "And I'd wager that your father did, too." Her throat thickens as words she never thought she'd utter push their way out of her mouth. "I did, too, once, when I was a little girl. After my favorite dog died."

"You had a dog?"

She smiles at that, knowing how badly this little curly-headed charmer wants a puppy.

"Not really," she admits. "There was a stray who used to hang around our stables. I started sneaking food out to him, and he became my best friend." She doesn't add that the white shepherd been her only companion-that she hadn't been allowed to play with the gardener's children or any of the children from the nearby village for that matter, nor does she tell him that it had been her mother who had killed the animal, that she'd been forced to watch in horror as Cora ended the dog's life with the flick of her wrist, or that she'd been whipped her until her legs and backside stung once they'd gotten back to the house and again the following morning.

She especially doesn't tell him that she'd called the white dog _Snow_.

"I cried for two days after he died," Regina continues before turning off the tap. "And the first night…"

"You had an accident?"

She nods, kneeling again in front of the boy.

"I had an accident."

Roland breathes through his mouth before helping Regina pull off his soaked bottoms and underwear.

"I dreamed Daddy disappeared and nobody could find him."

His curls course through her fingers before she pulls the child into her body, wrapping him up in much the same manner she'd held his father just hours earlier.

"That's not going to happen, Roland. I won't let it."

"Cause of your magic? You'll save Daddy like you saved me?"

She cannot dwell on how close she came to losing Robin today, how he'd skimmed the edge of death, how she would have failed had it not been for Snow, for David, for Arthur and Leroy, of all people. Roland need never know that her magic wouldn't have been enough to save his daddy. God knows the child already carries the weight of two worlds on his small shoulders-the last thing he needs is to fear that Robin might be snatched from right under their noses again simply because Regina is not powerful enough to protect them from all of the threats that loom in Storybrooke and beyond.

She swallows her uncertainty, biting it back in all its bitterness, allowing nothing but conviction to carry through her words to her would-be son.

"Yes, sweetheart," she assures him. "I'll protect both of you with my life."

He hugs her again, clearly satisfied with her answer before stepping into the tub and sinking slowly into the bubbles. His grin is infectious, and as minutes tick by, she lets herself hope that the bath will do the trick. A flick of her wrist could have had him dry and clean within seconds, but there is something about a bubble bath that soothes the senses and relaxes fears, a magic warm water possesses that purple smoke lacks.

"You can't stay in there all night, you know."

He smiles back at her before trying to rub his eyes. She cuts him off with a towel, not wanting soap to get in his eyes, no matter how adamantly the plastic bottle assures them that it will not cause eye irritation. The last thing she needs at this hour is for his eyes to burn and keep them both awake even longer.

"I know," Roland utters. "I'll get all pruney if I do."

She opens the towel, beckoning him to stand and fall into it which he does. A game is made of drying him off, tickling under armpits and a sensitive belly while he giggles and half-heartedly protests. Clean undies and pj's are donned, hair is combed, fogged glasses are wiped clear, and she steps back to admire their handiwork, sniffing just loud enough for him to hear.

"Strawberry shortcake," she proclaims, prompting Roland to look around for his soiled clothes. "They're already in the dirty clothes hamper," she clarifies. "Along with your sheets."

"You magiced them, didn't you?"

"I did," she confesses without the slightest twinge of guilt. He stares back at her with a sort of reverence, the same expression that filled his eyes many times over in the Enchanted Forest. "I also magiced clean sheets to your bed so you can hop right in and go back to sleep."

His gaze falls then, and he bites his lower lip nervously.

"I don't want to go back to bed, Gina."

His open vulnerability does her in, his fear of having another nightmare, of wetting the bed again playing out so obviously across stricken brown eyes.

"Would you rather sleep in our bed?" she asks, melting at the smile of relief that releases those dimples. "Just for tonight?"

"Just for tonight," he echoes, nodding furiously. "'Cause I'm not a baby."

His words smack of Henry's at this age, and she can't help but hug him again, wrapping herself up in the feel of life and warm skin.

"No you're not," she agrees, taking his hand as they shut off the light and exit the bathroom. "You're my brave young knight."

He pads beside her down the hallway and back into her bedroom, giggling under his breath at his father's loud snore. She holds up the comforter as he crawls into the middle of the bed, snuggling into sheets and pillows with a contented smile on his face. His body gravitates into hers once she settles herself, and she gathers him into her side, awash with a peace that smells of strawberries and soap and wiggles somewhat even when it's trying to be still.

"Thanks for doing it," he whispers, his curls tickling just under her nose and nearly making her sneeze.

"For doing what?" she breathes, her fingers instinctively moving into his hair. This maneuver put Henry to sleep more nights than she can count, but she's never been certain just who the gesture soothed more-her son or her.

"What mommies do," Roland whispers. "You're really good at it."

The words stroke her senses everywhere at once, and she holds the boy closer, kissing curls still slightly damp as small arms secure themselves around her waist. They lie like this as minutes tick by, as his breathing begins to steady itself and his grip gradually slackens, making her think he's finally drifted off again until one final command tickles her skin.

"Remember-don't tell Daddy. You promised."

She smiles up at the ceiling before closing her own eyes and succumbing to a prolonged yawn.

"I wouldn't dream of it," she assures him as he sighs into her chest, the world and its troubles melting away for both of them into a few blessed hours of peace.


	26. The Dress

_In fulfillment of a prompt given to me on tumblr asking for a drabble where Robin unzips Regina's perfect blue dress with his teeth. Post 5x6._

* * *

He hears her come in before he sees her.

There's the dull clank of her heels hitting the floor, the low thud of her back leaning against the door frame, a weighted sigh that carries from where she stands to where he sits, prompting him to raise his head from his hands, to interrupt the stance he's occupied for nearly an hour in an attempt to ward off yet another headache from his ordeal with the fury.

She's spent and frustrated, her sigh tells him this, and it's no wonder, what with the desperate rush to pull Emma back from darkness, to save the town from whatever plans she's already set in motion, to comfort a son whose heart has been all but shattered by his birth mother, all simmering on top of the ongoing saga of a pregnant sister serving as a continual thorn in her side, a thorn he'd unwittingly sharpened and thrust into an already fragile heart.

She's moving towards him, so he stands, watching as she sluffs off and deposits her jacket on the back of a chair, and he finds himself looking into eyes as needy if not needier than his own. She gives him a small smile, one he returns as his hands find his pockets, in need of something to grab when all they want to do is grab and hold on to her.

It's that dress-that goddamn wonderful, tortuous dress.

He'd watched her wordlessly earlier today as she left the house wearing it, feeling himself harden at the perfection of her body, a body he's held but hasn't touched intimately since his and Roland's abrupt return from New York. The way it hugs her hips, how the fabric paints her ass with lines as soft as goose down, how the blue cups her breasts with the same tender attention he so wants to bestow on them with his hands and his mouth-gods, it just gets to him.

And to top it all off, there's that zipper. That bloody, fantastic, infuriating zipper. Robin is certain he's never been so jealous of a garment in all of his life.

He feels himself respond yet again in spite of the dull throb still lingering just behind his eye sockets, making his pants tighten as his appreciation for her continues to increase by the second. And she notices-there's no question that she notices.

The room is dim as he's kept the lights off, and the house is quiet, so quiet he hears the floor creak as her weight shifts from one foot to the other.

"Where's Henry?" he asks, his tone huskier than he'd meant it to be, his mouth almost too dry for common speech.

"With David and Mary Margaret," she answers, swallowing loud enough for him to hear. "Where's Roland?"

"With Little John."

Her eyes flutter at this.

"Oh."

He stares at her tongue as she licks her lips. She stares right back.

There's a shift, an added bit of moisture to the air, the light scent of her perfume tickling and teasing him from her proximity, daring him closer, making him quiver at the mere thought of touching her.

"That dress," he begins, taking yet another step in her direction, feeling her heated exhale emanate from a body with tired eyes.

"What about it?"

It's an open door, her tone dull yet silken. His arm reaches out to touch her shoulder, his index finger taking up a slow path that trickles down her ribcage and stops just short of her breast. The sound of her swallow vibrates down his body, his headache now all but forgotten.

"It's a masterpiece," he manages, his touch curving to the side and just below her chest to the zipper that hugs her body. "At least it is on you."

There's a question in her eyes, one he seems to answer as his finger follows the silver trail around her back, his body following, circling around her, stopping to allow his palm to move her hair to one side of her neck. The move conveniently exposes bare skin to his mouth, and he kisses her, just barely, just below her hairline on his favorite freckle, just enough to feel her stiffen and relax into him as he resumes his path around her, his finger still on the zipper, his eyes now locked with hers.

She doesn't stop him when his touch dips to where her zipper begins, just on her thigh, her perfect thigh, and he skims the hem of the garment, feeling gooseflesh dot just beneath his finger, feeling his slacks tighten yet again as she fists the front of his shirt. Her grip pulses in and out, making him wonder if this clasp and release motion mirrors what she feels even lower. His forehead drops to hers, and his mouth caresses her lips, her breath now moving in synch with his.

"Let me take it off you."

It's a whisper, one that makes her shiver, prompts her to grip him tighter, pull him closer, suck his bottom lip into her mouth for a split second of ecstasy before she nods her assent. Lights still dot his vision as he smoothes her outer thighs through the fabric, as one hand moves towards the split of the dress, as skin meets skin and her head lolls back, as he kneels to the ground in front of her and kisses where metal meets flesh.

"Oh, God."

Her tone is throaty and deep, her need as pungent as his, and he allows his tongue to trace the hemline once, twice, more than gratified by the way she clasps on to him for support as her knees wobble beneath her. One arm moves around her middle, allowing him to cup her ass as he nips the flesh of her upper leg, urged on by the small yelp that emerges from her as her fingers press into his scalp.

His teeth then find the zipper, and he toys with the feel of cool metal in his mouth, allowing himself to nip and suck on it, his lips giving the same treatment to her thigh. He smells her arousal through the fabric now, and he nuzzles his nose just over her core, wondering if he'll melt into her right here and now.

"Robin."

It's a petition, one he feels everywhere as he moans and begins to unzip her dress with his teeth. The sound she makes is one of the most erotic things he's ever heard in his life, and he drops the silver from his mouth long enough to rest his head on her hip, his own desire nearly combusting him alive on the spot.

"Don't stop," she whispers, and he's shaking his head even as he nips the zipper yet again, nudging it further up and around her body until the dress gapes open just over her hip, revealing ice blue lace he teases with his tongue until he can't stand it anymore.

He's shaking just as badly as she is now, his own sweat mixing with hers as he resumes his journey towards her back, just over her rear. His hands rub her backside, teasing her cheeks, gripping and kissing soft flesh as her back arches and her legs quiver. One hand moves to her front and strokes between her legs, under the dress but on top of lace, the combination of fabric and coarse hair enough to make both of them groan in synch.

He moves forward then, raising himself up to better reach her at a rather awkward angle, allowing her to raise her arms over her head as he nudges the zipper forward once again. He plants an open mouthed kiss to her stomach, tasting salt, sweat and woman just before he straightens and kisses her hard on the mouth, the dress half-on and half-off of her body. She clasps on to him like he's the best thing she's ever felt, and he knows that she is, that she is so much more than she realizes, that she's life and everything beautiful to him, that she's far more than his second chance.

"Take me to bed."

It's the first time she's asked since their night in the vault, and something bursts brilliantly inside of him, a light that's been muted now glowing with a new energy that warms him in every way possible. He kisses her with everything he has, every drop of love, every ounce of thankfulness, every speck of hope mixed with the fear of losing love just found yet again. He pulls back just long enough to tug the dress over her head, only then noticing that her cheeks are as damp as her smile is glorious. He kisses the salty wetness, the taste of grief and renewal nearly knocking him over just as he lifts her up to his chest and carries her up the staircase one step at a time

"Gladly," he murmurs, the dress now all but forgotten as he shuts the bedroom door and makes love to the woman who brought him back to life.


	27. Addiction

_A short drabble in response to a request on tumblr. _

* * *

Addiction has never been a concern for you.

Obsession–yes. Rage–all too often. But addiction, the kind that slides through your veins like quicksilver, the sort that overtakes your senses before you realize you've even been exposed and leaves a tinge that hints of bourbon and honey on your tongue–no. That's never been a part of your life, especially when it comes to men.

But this–him–the way he kisses, the scrape of his beard on your neck, the feel of his tongue just there, in your mouth, under your ear, it's dangerously becoming something you can't live without. Need hits you out of nowhere, the need to touch, to taste, to lose yourself in hands that seem to already know your curves and plains by heart, to melt into a soul that fits yours as if carved from the same piece of wood. It pounds in your chest, overtakes your bloodstream, prickles your skin and pools heat between your legs, this addiction. It robs you of sleep even as it grants you the most delicious dreams. It heats your skin, robs you of reason, and just feels so damned glorious you'd like to slather it all over your body and lie naked in its heat.

"What are you thinking?"

His voice draws you back to him, always towards him, always towards _more_. He hasn't let go of you–he never does when you're together, and you love that he needs to touch you as badly as you need his touch.

"That I could get used to this."

Pupils dilate, a smile broadens, and dimples that should be illegal reach out in a weighted tease, one you let brush against your skin and soul as intimately has his mouth had been doing just seconds before. Exploration intensifies, the promise of more giving you a buzz beyond what whiskey could ever offer, and you fall into it, allowing all of who you are to hurdle head first into an abyss lined with silk and worn leather.

"Good," he utters, his words vibrating into heightened senses and bone. "So could I."


	28. A Matter of Blood

_A reversal of canon, if you will. Trigger warning: mention of rape._

* * *

How the man thinks he's gone unobserved is a mystery to Robin, but the bastard is lurking just beyond his tent believing himself to be hidden by nights shadows, stalking, listening, his hands fisting in anticipation of something too evil to entertain.

He can smell the man's sweat from here—bloody pig.

Then he shifts, makes a move, and Robin is on him in a flash, blade pressed into the soft flesh of his neck before the other man has even managed to take one step, his taller frame stiff and rigid in the outlaw's vice-like grip.

"Just where do you think you're going, Nottingham?"

There's a chuckle, one that oozes down Robin's arm and contracts his fingers all the tighter around muscle and bone.

"To claim what's mine, Locksley."

He's trembling now, the fury in his veins so strong it pulses and presses to get out.

"There's nothing here that belongs to you, _thief_." The name hits its mark, instigating a physical jerk in immobile arms, even if the sheriff refuses to acknowledge it. "Now leave before I kill you."

A small cry interrupts them, one that ignites every protective bone in Robin's body, and he pulls Nottingham backwards, the bigger man's feet dragging through dry leaves even as he struggles to get away. The knife sinks deeper into vulnerable flesh, and Nottingham stops, mindful of the fact that one flick of Robin's wrist could end his life.

"Do you think I'm enough of an idiot to come here alone?"

Robin sniffs the woods around him, the scents of rust and metal mixing with the natural smells of the forest in a manner that makes his skin crawl.

"Do you think I'm enough of an idiot to be holding you at knife point unguarded?" The sounds of bows being drawn feathers across his ears, their musicality strumming chords of familiarity along his nerves straight to his heart. "This is your last chance, Nottingham. Leave my forest, and never come back."

"You have an unfortunate habit of laying claim to objects that aren't yours, Locksley," Nottingham utters, his breathing somewhat labored due to his awkward stance of being pulled backwards into Robin's chest at knifepoint. "This forest rightly belongs to Her Majesty the Queen. And that baby crying in that tent isn't yours, _thief_. It's mine."

Insistent squalls are muted then by hushed coos, and Robin knows Regina has given the child her breast, the thoughts of such a beautiful scene being interrupted by the monster he holds captive too repugnant to even consider.

"The woman who just gave birth in there is my _wife_," Robin hisses, pressing the knife in until it draws a thin trickle of blood. "Which by law makes the babe she's just delivered mine—not yours. Never yours."

She'd been bruised when he'd found her, pale, barely able to walk, the blood oozing down her thighs enough to make him vomit after he and his men had borne her to their camp and settled her into his tent. They'd known each other in passing until that moment, bandit to outlaw, each bearing the other a grudging respect even as they competed for the same plunder.

But from the moment she'd come to dwell in his tent, he'd loved her with a force he'd believed impossible and had vowed revenge upon the beast who had raped her even as the evidence of her violation began to grow in her belly.

"_I want this baby," she'd confessed shakily one night as he'd held her in the dark. "What happened to me—it's not his fault."_

"_It's not yours, either," he'd assured her, drawing her into his body as her tears baptized his chest. "And if you want this baby, so do I."_

"You know as well as I do that your whore was with child by me before you married her," Nottingham spits. "That I got between her thighs before you ever did."

"Raping a woman doesn't give you the right to her child, Nottingham," Robin hisses, pressing the blade in so hard that a mere sneeze could bring about the other man's death. "It makes you a criminal, one worthy of execution, an execution I'd be more than happy to carry out now."

Bows tighten, and the sound of swords being dropped bolsters his confidence and feeds his rage.

"Your soldiers have been relieved of their weapons, it would seem," Robin continues. "Which means they are powerless to stop me from slitting your throat."

The resulting laugh is low yet maniacal, and it chills every nerve even as it strengthens his resolve.

"Then do it, brother."

Sweat drips into his eyes as his stomach fists itself into a knot. He wants to kill him, needs to kill him, should rid the forest of this menace of a human being who unfortunately shares his blood and parentage.

"Get out of my sight."

He shoves Nottingham forward, and the man is grabbed by two of Robin's men.

"Strip him, relieve him of his weapons, and leave him by the lake at the far end of the woods." He pauses, his heart squeezing so hard it hurts as Regina's voice reaches out to him from their tent. She sings a lullaby, one his mother had sung to both he and his brother, and their eyes lock, Locksley to Locksley, this contest of wills won by the younger, much to the elder's chagrin.

"If you ever show your face around my family again, I'll kill you."

He then spits on his brother's leather boots, giving his men the proper signal before turning his back on the stench of pure evil, eagerly returning to the warmth and promise of his wife and new baby.


	29. This

He takes the slack bundle from her arms, all warm and swollen with formula, and hoists her gently over his shoulder onto the burp cloth she'd just passed him. She loves watching him rub her back, how he whispers words of adoration into tiny, pink ears, how he kisses the nearly bald head as his eyes lock with her own.

"She's out," he grins as Regina makes room for Roland on the sofa beside her. The boy slides half-into her side, half onto her lap, his need to stake his claim on her somehow heightened since they brought the baby home from the hospital. He's never had to share his father with another child, she understands, has never felt the need to compete for attention, so it surprises her somewhat that his attentions have been focused upon her rather than upon Robin.

"She's full," Regina hums, working her fingers into dark curls that press themselves into her chest. She kisses Roland's head just as Robin kisses the baby's, prompting small arms to wrap around her middle and squeeze until she feels it. "How about you, Roland?"

He nods, making her grin as she recalls the two helpings of lasagna the boy tackled with aplomb just minutes ago. Her nails slide up and down his back, and Robin smiles back at her before sitting down nearby, his tiny bundle all snug against his chest in her lavender footed pajamas.

"I think we're all pleasantly stuffed," he whispers, careful not to jostle the baby as her sleep patterns have been erratic at best. "Roland and I had no idea what we were missing in the Enchanted Forest until we tasted your lasagna."

Brown eyes stare up at her in adoration, and she hugs Robin's son all the closer, feeling more like a mother to the boy than she probably should at this juncture in their relationship. It's only been weeks since they've returned from New York, weeks stuffed with memories lost in another realm, weeks filled with more stress and danger than she ever wants to face again.

"And the garlic bread," Roland hums, giving Regina's middle another squeeze. "It's awesome."

"That it is," Robin confirms, his tone low and tinged with intimacy.

_This_, she thinks. This is her happy ending, sitting here with Robin, with Henry and Roland, with the daughter she wants to claim as her own and already loves so much it's too painful to even contemplate life without her. Robin stares at her from his chair, and it's too much but just right, this odd family they've put together, this menagerie of loss and love held together by hope. Roland stirs beside her, his movements tickling her ribs, and she looks down at the boy, knowing he has something to say but unsure of what it is as he clears his throat.

"Marry me, Gina."

Seconds pass before she realizes her mouth is hanging open, and she blinks as she tries to close it, wondering if she'll be able to breathe if she does.

"Roland, I…"

"Us, I mean," the boy interjects, pointing towards his father and baby sister as he leans forward on his elbows. "All three of us. Please!"

His father sits motionless, obviously as stunned by this turn of events as she is, his rubbing motion on the baby's back now stalled as he looks from his boy to his lover.

"You're supposed to get down on one knee if you want to do it right, Roland. Remember what I told you."

Her head snaps around to see Henry in the doorframe, thumbs hooked into the pockets of loose-fitting jeans, his eyes fastened upon hers and hers alone. His smile is small yet full, the pain from the past few weeks morphing into something she sucks into her heart and presses into memory and bone.

"You have to follow the rules when you propose to a Queen."

Roland wiggles out from his place under her arm and drops to the floor with a plop, looking to his father and then Henry for mere seconds before fixing his eyes back on Regina.

"Will you marry us, Regina?"

He bites his lower lip in a mannerism that mirrors his father to a tee, and her eyes move from brown to blue to hazel, the three men in her life watching her with an anticipation that squeezes her chest until it hurts.

"Henry?"

"You have my blessing, Mom," her son assures her, taking three steps towards her, drawing Robin's gaze for a moment before her lover fixes his stare back upon her. She's asking without words, needing to know if this is what he wants, if it's just an impassioned plea from a boy wanting a mother or if it's the true desire of both father and son. It's then she spots the tears, the same small beads she witnessed when he held his daughter for the first time, the same pricks of moisture she felt when he cupped her face at the town line as he kissed her goodbye. She's smiling before she realizes it, breathing consciously as she tugs a strand of hair behind her ear.

"Robin?"

The words stumble over her lips, tasting of salt and wonder, and he smiles back at her then—the smile of a man on the brink of a miracle.

"Regina?"

Her own tears break free then, coursing hot and wet down her cheeks. She smells the scent of freedom in her memory—the combination of stable and newborn melding with the grin of a preschooler still on his knees in front of her. _This_, she whispers to herself, amazed that these three men have chosen her just as she has chosen them as well as the pink and purple bundle nuzzled into her father's chest. This is life in all of its odd brilliance, in all of its glory and pitfalls.

Her lips taste of salt, and licking them does little to quell their dry state, especially when her mouth feels ten times as arid and completely incapable of speech. But one word presses its way stubbornly forward, teetering on the tip of her tongue until enough moisture forms for it to exit her mouth in a whispered rush, eliciting smiles, squeals and tears she knows she'll remember for the rest of her life.

"Yes."


	30. Sister

She can't help but grin at how he sticks his tongue out in concentration as his brown crayon traces the contours of his fingers under Henry's watchful eye.

"That's it, Roland," her eldest encourages. "Watch that last curve. I think that's the trickiest part."

The preschooler's morning pout has been turned into an art project that has successfully taken his mind off of the newest addition to the household, an addition he's not too certain is a good one, one he treats with suspicion and disinterest much to his father's chagrin. Said addition is now strapped and nuzzled into Regina's chest, all warm and angelic, sleeping like the proverbial baby she is after a busy night that kept the rest of them wide awake. Regina yawns yet again, looking into bleary blue eyes gazing back at her that are every bit as tired as her own.

Thank God for coffee.

"I did it!"

Roland's exclamation draws both Robin's and her attention. She moves to the stove where he's been keeping watch over eggs and bacon and takes the spatula from his hand, nodding him in his son's direction. He dots a quick kiss to her lips before surrendering the utensil, and she steps back enough to protect the baby from the heat of the stovetop, swaying to an internal rhythm felt by both mother and child.

_Mother_. When exactly had she made the leap from feeling like guardian to mommy?

"That's an excellent turkey, Roland."

The boy scoots his chair towards his father's, soaking up both his accolades and undivided attention with the eagerness of a new puppy. He picks up a red crayon and begins to color his turkey feathers, smiling more broadly than Regina has seen him do since they brought the baby home. It's been a week full of sleepless nights, countless changes of clothing, and one perplexed and cranky little boy having difficulty accepting the changes brought about by the addition of an instant baby sister.

"Is this all she does?" he'd asked yesterday. "Eat, scream and poop?"

Robin had snapped at him, his patience stretched thinner than a promise from Gold, but then Henry had stepped at just the right moment and taken Roland to the park, allowing Robin and Regina an hour of blessed, uninterrupted sleep.

"I want him to love her, Regina," Robin had whispered when they woke up, fully clothed on top of the covers. "I know I can't push him—that this entire situation is crazy and difficult for all of us, but…but I'd hoped he'd at least be interested in her."

"He's four," she'd reminded him. "And has never had to share his father with another child. Give him time, Robin."

"Do you like it, Gina?"

Roland holds up his picture, standing tall as if he'd created a work of art that would make Picasso proud.

"I love it, Roland. We'll hang it on the refrigerator after breakfast."

He grins back at his father before crawling into his lap, latching on to his papa's neck and burying his curls into the crook of Robin's shoulder. They're a drawing themselves, one that makes her heart swell as she carefully flips the bacon and moves the eggs off of the hot burner, her palm still cupping the baby's head protectively.

The picture is displayed as promised, _ooohed_ and _ahhhed_ over as if it were being mounted in the Louvre. And Roland beams.

Days progress, and more begin showing up under doorframes and taped to mirrors, smiling stick figures of Roland and Robin holding hands, of Henry and Roland playing outside, of Regina reading Roland a bedtime story, of all of them eating dinner.

All of them minus one.

But one day, there is a picture that appears on her vanity, one of a smiling Roland holding the baby, one she shows Robin the minute he gets out of the shower, prompting him to plop down on the bed, sling his towel over his shoulder, and trace the crayon-crafted lines with reverence. He chuckles, sighing audibly as he shakes his head before biting his lower lip, a move that beckons her to sit beside him and lean into his shoulder. For at the bottom of the page, there is one word, scribbled by a child who cannot yet spell, one that makes both of them tear up as something inside of them breaks free.

_Sister_.


	31. Hoodwinked

_My contribution to the Outlaw Queen advent calendar, so prepare for some Hood Mills family fluff. I hope you enjoy it, and Happy Holidays!_

* * *

There.

The final ornament dangles perfectly from its branch, and Regina steps back, gazing at the tree in satisfaction. She grins as her tinsel strewn outlaw moves to the outlet and rubs his hands together in eager anticipation, just waiting for a nod from her to light up the enormous Balsam Fir he and the boys had brought home earlier that afternoon. She moves to the bouncy seat, unstrapping a bright-eyed, fidgety infant who is making intense faces of concentration and emitting a distinctive odor.

"You've been busy, haven't you?" Regina states, kissing the girl's soft, fuzzy head and cradling her to her chest, silently noting that a diaper change is in order as soon as the tree has been lit.

_Henry, Holly, Robin_... wait. There's one missing from the family head-count.

"Where's Roland?"

Robin and Henry look around the room simultaneously before glancing back at her in confusion, and she turns her attention to the staircase, calling out the boy's name, noting the abandoned box of unbreakable ornaments she'd given him to hang still sitting untouched beneath the tree.

Where has the child gone? He'd been more excited than anyone at the prospect of decorating the tree.

Holly squirms and lets out a mewl, reminding her mother of the uncomfortable state of her bottom just as Robin opens and sticks his head out the front door, allowing in a blast of cold air that prompts Henry to step back and shiver.

"Roland? Are you out here?"

There's a muffled, human noise from around the corner, one that straightens her spine and makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Robin is out the door in a flash, coat forgotten as he scans the front yard, and she starts to pass off the baby to Henry so she can join the search, the dangers presented by her imprisoned sister still fresh and raw in the forefront of her mind.

Then the back door opens, followed by a scraping sound she can't quite identify.

"Can somebody close the door for me?"

His little voice has never sounded sweeter, and she dashes towards the kitchen, Holly's blue eyes wide with wonder at all of the frantic activity and jostling about. Roland totes an oversized branch behind him into the kitchen, dragging it with all of the force he'd witnessed his father using on the larger tree just hours before, a huge smile plastered across his face. She shuts the door behind him just as Holly emits an insistent and prolonged whimper.

"Do you like my tree, Gina?"

The tree in question is actually a chunk of one of her bushes that seems to have been hacked off with a baseball bat and sheer persistence.

"You don't think our big tree is enough?"

Her question seems to confuse him, and he bites his lower lip as his eyes drop to the floor, clearly wondering if he is in trouble. Robin rushes into the room at that exact moment, cold from the outdoors clinging to his skin and henley, somehow making him smell more like pine than he usually does.

"Roland-what have you done?"

The boy knows something is wrong now, and he begins to fidget as children do when they know their hide is on the line.

"I cut down my own tree, Daddy. That's all."

Robin's eyes lock with hers, his shoulders dropping with a mixture of relief and consternation.

"Why didn't you tell us where you were going?" he continues, kneeling down in front of his son. "Or ask either me or Henry to help you?"

"'Cause I wanted to surprise you. That's all."

Regina begins bouncing in place to shush Holly's mounting protests, wrinkling her nose at a persistent stench wafting from the diaper she won't be able to tolerate much longer.

"That's very sweet, Roland," she begins. "But it's better to ask before you-"

"Wait. Is that Regina's bush?"

Roland's chin begins to tremble at his father's question, his small face dropping in shame.

"Son, we don't damage the plants in her yard, not even if we think they might look better in the house."

"I thought it was my yard, too, Daddy."

Roland rubs his cheek with the back of one hand, nearly dropping his branch in the process as a small sob escapes him. Regina won't have this, not now, not when she has them all here for their first Christmas together, not when they're all finally safe, sound and living happily under one roof.

Not when he's just announced that her house now feels like his home.

"It's alright, Robin. Roland knows to ask first next time, don't you, Roland?"

The boy nods, the branch now dangling limp from his grasp as he sniffles and snorts. Regina taps Robin on the shoulder and passes her soggy bundle into his arms, grinning in spite of herself at the manner in which his nose crinkles at the smell of his daughter.

"Why don't you go and change Holly while Roland and I find the perfect place for his tree?"

Robin tosses her a look that lets her know in no uncertain terms that she is getting the better end of this bargain before setting off towards the closest changing table. Roland continues to stare at his boots, ones it would seem he'd laced up incorrectly in his haste to go outside.

"Are you mad?"

Eyes a puppy dog would envy gaze up at her, and she kneels down to his level, rubbing her fingers through dark curls as she shakes her head.

"No. But I don't want you sneaking out of the house without letting somebody know where you're going. You scared us, Roland."

His bottom lip sticks out further than should be legal, making him only cuter and more difficult to discipline.

"Sorry, Gina. But why were you scared?"

"Because we love you, Roland Christopher," she says, catching a quick flare of his dimples with her use of his middle name. "And we thought, well, we were afraid that someone may have tried to hurt you."

"Like Zelena?"

"Yes, baby. Like Zelena."

Her stomach clenches at the mere thought of her sister, and she motions a silent Henry who's been watching from the doorframe towards the back door, relaxing somewhat as he locks it. She knows full-well that if someone were to remove Zelena's constraints yet again, a lock would be useless against her. Still, the mere act of securing her home makes her feel as if she's doing something to protect her family. And when it comes to her family, every measure counts.

"But I thought she couldn't hurt people anymore?"

Regina sighs, hugging the boy to her chest, sighing into his little body as he hugs her right back.

"She can't," she insists. "We have her magic bound, but that doesn't mean that it's okay for you to run outside without taking either me, your daddy or Henry with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Gina," Roland mutters, his mouth scrunched into her shoulder. "I promise."

It's Henry who steps in and picks up the discarded branch, tilting it upright so that it actually resembles a misshapen tree.

"You know, Roland," the older boy states. "This tree has potential. I think with a little bit of love, it could look awesome."

"Really?" Roland asks, wiping his cheek one more time for good measure. "You really think so?"

Regina stands, hearing one knee pop as she straightens her legs and smoothes out her slacks.

"I agree with Henry," she says, watching Roland's countenance brighten at her words. She then turns towards Robin who has just reentered the room carrying a contented and sweet smelling baby. "What do you think?"

"I'm game," he grins back, opening and closing his lips on the little girl's fingers as she watches him in complete fascination. "What do you say, Holly Claire?"

A gurgle of sorts serves as her answer, and Roland looks to his unofficial big brother, clapping his hands in excitement when Henry announces, "Let Operation Charlie Brown begin."

"Operation Charlie Brown!" Roland echoes, clearly thinking this is the coolest suggestion he's ever heard. Robin tosses Henry a conspiratorial wink.

A wooden base is quickly secured at the bottom of the branch, and one of Henry's blue baby blankets is wrapped snugly around it for good measure. Roland carries his box of ornaments to the little make-shift tree with care, his eyes shining as he hangs the first one on the top branch.

He wilts the second his addition causes the tree to collapse.

"I killed it," he utters, burying his face into his crossed arms. "I can't do anything right."

"It's just too heavy, sweetheart," Regina assures him, scratching his back just the way he likes it. "You haven't killed anything. You know, I think this is the perfect time to make some decorations just for this tree. Henry?"

"On it, Mom."

Roland takes her hand and follows wordlessly where she leads him, his bottom lip still leading the rest of his body. He brightens somewhat as paper and glitter appear on the table, accompanied by glue, popsicle sticks, scissors, yarn and Henry. Snowflakes are crafted, popcorn and cranberries are strung via needle, thread and Regina's guidance, and soon the little tree sits festively atop the dining room table, holding a place of honor that makes the youngest male in the household beam as broadly as if he's just seen Santa.

"Do you like it, Gina? Do you like it?"

The pride and expectation in his voice squeeze her heart in all the right places.

"That branch has never looked lovelier, Roland. I think your tree is perfect."

"Our tree," the boy insists, tossing her a grin that could melt Antarctica.

"Our tree," she echoes, her heart skipping a beat as her soul mate steps in just behind her.

"Thank you."

His deep voice resonates through her spine right into her ribs, and she shivers as his beard tickles her neck. She leans back into him, his arms now free to wrap around her middle as Holly now lies securely in the arms of her eldest brother.

"For?"

"For making his first Christmas in this land so special, especially after all he's endured with New York, the jump to Camelot, Holly's birth..."

She turns just enough to see him and nuzzles her nose into his cheek, effectively stalling out the rest of his sentence.

"It's been a rough year for all of us."

He sighs for both of them.

"You are the queen of understatements."

She tries to bite back a grin.

"You've made Christmas special for Henry and me, too, you know. You, Roland and Holly. Don't forget that."

He smiles, and she kisses him softly on the lips, relishing the feel of his mouth brushing hers with a tenderness that makes her ache. He has other ideas, however, ideas that involve dragging her lower lip through his teeth, making her moan in the lower recesses of her throat as his breath tickles that spot just behind her ear. Then their mouths are fused together, open and warm, allowing his tongue a soft swish over her own, infusing her with a heady mix of evening whiskey and ginger snaps.

"Stop it. Mommies and Daddies aren't supposed to kiss like that!"

They release each other slowly, staring down at a horrified Roland whose attention is now fixed on what they're doing rather than on his tree. But it's the words he's just uttered that steal the air from her lungs, the fact that even in what may have been a mere slip of the tongue, he's just referred to her as _Mommy _for the very first time.

_Mommy. _

"You're wrong, Roland," Robin rebuffs, his own voice tighter than it had been just seconds ago. "This is exactly what Mommies and Daddies are supposed to do."

God, the way he says that, _mommies and daddies_, it gets to her again, just as he squeezes her hand, letting her know that he understands the impact of his son's statement every bit as much as she does. She tries to swallow, keeping her emotions in check as best she can.

"Parents," Roland sighs, turning on his heels with an eye roll before making his way to the other two kids now sitting comfortably on the sofa. She stares after him, taking in the sight of this make-shift family they've put together, feeling a lightness inside her that has nothing to do with the Christmas lights sparkling down on them from the tree. Robin's hold around her waist tightens, and she feels his chin pressing lightly on her shoulder.

"Parents," he echoes, his tone now laced with something that warms her from the inside out better than any whiskey ever could.


	32. Mulling Things Over

His feet were tired, his boots designed for bare earth far rather than stone floors, but it seemed as though the festivities were finally dying down, thanks be to whatever god was listening. He tossed back the remainder of his ale, nearly forgetting himself and wiping his mouth with his sleeve, wishing he'd just stayed with Roland and Little John rather than spending the evening among people he didn't know all that well.

The banquet had been nice, there was no question, and Snow White and her Prince were the most gracious and generous of hosts. But the atmosphere felt hollow, as if everyone in attendance was either mourning what was lost or uncertain of what was to come.

It was a feeling he knew on an all-too-intimate level.

He heard a shuffle behind him and smelled the heady concoction of mulled wine, apples and lavender, a scent he'd memorized and welcomed even though he had no idea why he should even care. She'd given him the cold shoulder all evening—all week, he amended, actually ever since they'd returned from their mission to find the Wicked Witch. He'd come away from their journey with a confused understanding of the supposed Evil Queen, a formidable woman so broken she'd nearly cast herself into a sleeping curse. And she'd despised him for seeing her weakness, for watching as she nearly crumbled at the mere mention of her lost child, for trying to stop her when her mind was set on her own destruction.

But he didn't hate her in return. He felt far too drawn to her for his own good and peace of mind.

"Thinking about me, Thief?"

The words were slurred and throaty, and they caressed his neck along with the warm breath that gave them life.

"You are, aren't you?" she continued as a finger retraced the steps of her conversation. "About what you'd like to do to me? About what you'd like me to do to you?"

The heady scent of cloves and red wine wrapped around him in time with her arm. Those dark eyes were glazed over, their stare languid and seductive as her head tilted back just so. He quickly caught her as she leaned back too far and nearly stumbled, tugging her into his body, prompting a reaction from his lower anatomy that was rather ill-timed.

"You want me that badly, do you?"

Fingers slid up his torso and along his beard, her nails etching a soft trail of temptation from his jaw to his temple and then along the ridges of his scalp. Her mouth was a mere breath away from his now, so close, so ripe and delectable, and gods, he should just push her away and go back to his son. She was drunk, he was confused, baffled, and as blindingly aroused as he'd ever been in his life.

But he didn't move away. And she kissed him.

She kissed as he assumed she lived—hot and open, fire-fed and half-wild, a thunderstorm in a woman's body, a fractured spirit hiding behind make-up and magic. She tasted of cloves and alcohol, and he kissed her back, opening his mouth to her, tasting her and allowing her to drink from him in return. Her hands moved to his tunic, and she fisted the material until their bodies were practically fused together, their breath a progression of steam and smoke unleashed from the walking wounded.

He'd never felt so alive in his life.

She drew back then, eyeing him with a mixture of wonder, lust and fear, an expression he was certain he mirrored as their noses continued to touch.

"Take me to bed, Thief."

It was a plea disguised as a command, one his body cried out for him to fulfill, one his mind and heart knew he'd regret once he'd come inside of her.

"I shall, my lady," he breathed, cupping her face, reveling in the softness of her skin. "But only to sleep. If we did anything else, you'd hate me come morning."

A brow lifted groggily as her body swayed into his.

"Does that matter to you?" she questioned. "How I'll feel about you the morning after?"

Something fluttered in his chest then, something he wasn't certain he wanted to feel but clasped on to all the same.

"It does," he answered, kissing her forehead softly, imprinting her saltiness on his lips. "Far more than it should."

She staggered back then, and he saw an expression he knew he'd never forget, one of a girl—a frightened girl, one who seemed to want to move towards him but didn't dare venture too close.

"Don't follow me, then," she whispered, taking another precarious step backwards before enveloping herself in a cloud of purple smoke that tickled his skin.

She was gone. Just like that.

Shit—he didn't need this in his life, didn't want to feel anything for a complicated and difficult woman, didn't want to care about the very person he should hate without a second thought. But there he stood, warm from her kisses, besotted by her taste, enamored by her mind and soul in a way that both frightened and excited him in ways he wasn't sure he understood. He touched his lips then, felt the remnants of mulled wine and licked the headiness off of his finger, wondering if he should ignore her orders and make certain she'd made it safely back to her chambers.

Would she yell at him? Attack him? And what did he actually want her to do—invite him inside so he could face the temptation that was Regina all over again? Would he be able to walk away if she were already in her night clothes? Or would he give in and mark her body with his own, throwing away both reason and conscience for a night of physical pleasure?

He stood there, like a man carved of marble, uncertain of what to do, unfamiliar with his own mind. Then he breathed in, took a lingering look around the banquet hall, and finally made up his mind, walking towards his decision with the tread of a doomed man.


	33. The Woman who Lived

_Inspired by a comment that Robin's sacrifice mirrored Lilly Potter's. I hope you enjoy. Warning: Character death_

* * *

She first felt it as she held his lifeless body, as she'd cradled a face that looked far too peaceful in a death that should have never been.

A tingle-just over her heart, a sensation of warmth and magic that held her breathless, the same sensation she'd experienced when his soul had gazed upon her and danced over her skin before fading into oblivion.

She first saw it later that night as she'd stripped out of clothes she pressed into her face, clothes she knew she'd never wash in fear of losing the mingled scents of pine, leather and cloves, the scents of a soul mate whose soul had physically touched her own in an act of sacrifice she still couldn't accept. It stared at her in the mirror, a new blemish on naked skin, red, raw and defined, an undeniable mark of magic just there on her ribs, between her breasts, directly over where her heart continued to beat.

A scar. One in the shape of an arrow. A mark of love's sacrifice she stroked in reverence and awe.

He'd touched her in a manner someone without magic shouldn't have been able to do, had marked her with a protection so powerful she wept again at its meaning. He'd loved her far more than he'd loved himself, just as he'd loved Marian and his children. He'd given her far more than Hades had been able to take, had indeed left a part of himself etched forever in and on her body in a way she'd keep to herself and treasure in secret.

She bore two scars now: one from a blow meant to drive out her weakness, another from a man who believed in her strength. She smiled through her tears as she touched where he'd marked her, whispering his name in an incantation she felt all over at once. He was with her-would always be with her, had defeated Hades in a way only she would understand.

For he was her Robin, would always be her Robin-the thief who died so she could be the woman who lived.


	34. Intertwined

He arrived during the worst storm the forest had seen in over a decade, drenched to the skin, scraped and bloodied from flying branches and twigs, knuckles raw from scaling her wall. He'd borne his burden with utmost care, had strapped his precious bundle to his back so securely there could be no risk of it falling off of him or being lost. The climb had been difficult-merciless, even-but there is more at stake here than honor.

He has come to plead for a life.

Now he stands dripping upon her stone floor, staring into eyes as dark as night, seeking help from a force that could destroy him with a flick of her wrist.

"Please," he utters, cradling his boy close to his heart. "I had nowhere else to turn. I would not have dared to approach you otherwise."

She paces the width of her chambers, causing the black silk of her dressing gown to billow after her like some enchanted nocturnal fog. Her hair is unbound, giving her a look far softer than he'd expected. If it were not for the rigid set of her brow and jaw, she would look quite young, indeed.

"You seek my help, thief," she says, turning to face him directly. "Yet you sneak into my bedroom under the cover of darkness rather than having the decency to make your presence formally known."

"I'd have been thrown in your dungeons had I approached you openly," he retorts, his tone impatient.

"I should have you thrown into my dungeons now," she states, taking a decisive step in his direction. Any other time he might feel threatened, but not now, not when his Roland is so sick. So he presses down any vestiges of fear lurking in his soul, and he calls upon every ounce of stupidity and boldness he possesses as he dares a step towards her, quite possibly towards his own demise.

"This was the only way I could see you immediately, and I…"

He breaks and looks down at his boy, the child's body lying limp in his arms.

"My son," he breathes. "He's been struck by magic, and if you can't help him…"

She steps even closer, and he smells the surprisingly delicate scents of moonflowers and lilacs. He isn't certain what he'd been expecting, certainly something muskier, richer, more akin to the alluring parfumes sold by traders from Agraba rather than those that permeate the forest in spring. She's very small in her bare feet, he realizes, her hands not much larger than those of a girl. Yet the power they wield is to be feared and respected, and it is that very power that has prompted him to risk everything to come to her under the cover of night.

"He did this to himself," she states as her fingers hover over the child. "Your son has magic."

"I didn't know," he says, his tone past the point of desperation. "I don't know what to think or what to do. I-I just want him to...to live and get better."

He doesn't realize he is sobbing until she presses a handkerchief into his hand. He blinks, trying to read her, wondering if she's more inclined to assist him or to incinerate him on the spot.

"Dry your tears, thief. I can help him, and thankfully you've managed to catch me when I'm in a fairly generous mood."

He fights to steady his breathing as she motions him towards a door on the other side of her chambers, his mind swirling in colliding directions as follows her. She waves the door open and enters an adjoining bedroom without a sound, lighting the small space with a simple wave of her hand.

"Lay him here," she instructs, motioning towards a large bed that takes up much of the chamber itself. "And get him out of those wet clothes. He'll catch his death in those."

A long white nightshirt appears on the deep blue coverlet, and he makes his way to the pillows, tugging down the blankets as he lays his son gently on the sheets. He undresses him quickly, the iciness of Roland's skin causing him to panic as he slides the small nightshirt over the boy's head.

"He's so cold," he states, and he rubs the child's arms, trying desperately to warm him.

"Then get him under the blankets," she orders, nudging him out of the way as she steps forward towards the bed. She then turns towards the opposite wall, procuring a fireball out of thin air with an ease that astonishes him before tossing it into the empty grate. The room warms gradually as fire fills the hearth, taking on a warm, almost welcoming aura, yet another surprise in a list he'll analyze later, once his boy is well.

"When did this happen?"

He nearly misses the question, unable to take his eyes off of how small his son looks all tucked in under layers of blankets and quilts.

"Yesterday," he answers. "Just before supper. I took him to the closest healer, but…"

"Mim Zahiri doesn't know what she's doing," she interrupts, stepping closer to Roland until she stands directly over him. "And no traditional healers can touch this sort of injury." Deft fingers, flutter over his son's chest, and she leans her head down as if she's listening for a heartbeat. Her hand then slides under the nightshirt as she places her palm flat on his chest, inhaling and closing her eyes in intense concentration.

"It's a reaction," she mutters without breaking her stance. "His body is rejecting whatever spell he tried to conjure."

"He's only three years old," Robin cuts in. "What sort of spell could a child of his age have mustered that would do this sort of damage?"

She inclines her head in his direction as her eyes reopen and focus.

"I'm not sure," she says. "But it's not the strength of the spell that's causing the problem. It's the fact that it's residue is reacting badly within his own body." His brow creases as he tries to process her words, and she rolls her eyes in his direction, exhaling heavily through her nose. "He's basically allergic to his own magic."

His head pounds relentlessly in time with his heart.

"I didn't even know he had magic until…" he begins, rubbing his palm across his scalp. "How? I mean, how is it he even has this power?"

She leans over the child, picks up his hand and begins to stroke a perfectly manicured thumb over his palm.

"Can you see this?" she asks him, laying Roland's arm down gently before holding out her thumb. He sees only skin at first, but then a faint sparkling captures his attention, and he becomes aware of fine particles dotting where she just touched his son, so fine and small they could easily be mistaken for sand. "This is fairy magic. Are either you or his mother descendents of the Cliff Dwellers?"

He swallows as old legends compete with logic in his mind.

"My wife," he manages, feeling more hopeless by the second. "Her grandparents were...but I thought…"

"Most legends are born from truth, thief," she returns as she places her palm back upon Roland's chest. "When people mate with fairies, even if the couplings took place generations ago, the results can be unpredictable. Your son was obviously born with the gift, as the Cliff Dwellers call it, but in his case, it's more of a curse."

"What must I do?"

His words hang between them, and she stares back at him, her eyes hard, dark and focused.

"I need black willow bark," she answers. "And yarrow root. I already have everything else that I'll need."

He snaps out of his stupor, nodding before he can form words.

"I know where to find both," he says, ignoring the storm that continues to rage outside of her walls. "Do I have time?"

"If you hurry. Tell me where to send you," she states. "You'll have to make your own way back, but I can at least cut your journey in half."

"On the banks of Red Fern Lake," he returns as he tugs his hood back over his head. "How much should I bring?"

She moves to a small cupboard in the corner of the room, and extracts two small canisters she places in his outstretched hands.

"Fill them both," she states. "But don't allow them to come in contact with each other on the journey or they'll be of no use to me or your son. Understood?"

He nods, deposits the canisters into his satchel, and is immediately surrounded in a plume of purple smoke that feels like cool air. The scent of forest fills his senses as the smoke begins to dissipate, and his feet begin to sink into wet earth and moss. Thankfully the rain has abated here at the lake's edge, and he wastes no time, finding a large black willow within seconds and making quick work of its bark. The yarrow plant is more elusive, but he finally locates it with cry of thanks and sets to work unearthing the plant and cutting off its valuable roots.

The journey back to her castle is agonizing, and he runs the entire way, barely noticing as the storm picks back up and rain pelts his face, uncaring that his leg muscles are cramping and his lungs begging for a reprieve. She must sense his arrival somehow, for smoke engulfs him just as he reaches the base of her tower, and he again finds himself wet and shivering upon the stone floor of her chambers.

She still sits by Roland's side, her palm still flat upon the boy's chest, her lips silently uttering a mantra of sorts in a tongue that he doesn't recognize.

"Your majesty," he begins, wary of approaching her when she looks to be in some sort of trance. She extends one hand in his direction, and he places the pouch within it before practically sprinting to his son's bedside.

"I have kept the poison from reaching his heart," she explains as she rises to her feet, sighing at the confused expression on his face. "His magic is poison to his system. The potion I'm going to brew will counteract it's effects and allow his body to heal itself."

He nods as she moves in his direction.

"Everything else I require is in my vault," she states matter-of-factly, and he is surprised to feel only relief at words that should inspire fear. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

"Thank you."

The words break on his lips, and he fights to keep his body from shaking, even as his legs quake beneath him. Her eyes meet his before falling to the floor then as she whispers words that pierce him like arrows.

"Nothing is worth the loss of a child. Believe me, I know."

Then she's gone, and he is alone with his son in a castle that had once meant no more to him than a possible target. Now it is the only place that can offer him healing, and the irony doesn't leave him as he sits by Roland's side and strokes the boy's matted hair. He thanks the gods for each breath, for each heartbeat, each second of continued life, and then for a queen who doesn't appear as evil or demented as he'd heard from several sources. He wonders about the child of whom she spoke as stories of failed pregnancies and of an aging king with no son begin to replay in his mind. Had she given birth to a blue, misshapen baby as the stories say, he wonders, or had all of her children been lost before ever making their way out of her body? How young had she been when the king had taken her as his wife years ago, for she looks no older than the princess she hunts with a fury he's been told has consumed her.

She's so small, this "evil" queen, hardened and dangerous, yet beautiful in a way that soaks into his skin and absorbs his conscious thought.

She wakes him later, and he struggles to remember where he is as cold fingers squeeze his hand and the scent of moonflowers washes over him yet again. He is startled by the dark circles under her own eyes, at a raw vulnerability that highlights her humanity in stark hues of black and white.

"Here." She hands him a cup of warm broth before placing two spoonfuls of an herbal concoction into the brew. "This should do the trick."

He raises Roland into a semi-sitting position as she pries open the child's mouth and eases the liquid down his throat. It's a time-consuming, messy process, but soon the contents are gone, and the boy is resting again, his color gradually morphing back into a healthy pink from a jaundiced white.

"I just taught you what to do whenever this occurs," she continues as she pushes a lock of hair behind her ears. "Two spoonfuls in warm liquid-broth or water, even cider is fine." She then lays a large pouch beside him on the bed as she moves to stand and stretch her muscles. "This should last you until he's old enough to learn how to control his magic. Who knows? Perhaps when that time comes, I'll be feeling generous enough to teach him myself."

Her back is now to him, and he notes she is struggling to maintain her upright posture. He stands and makes his way towards her, daring to touch her arm, wondering if she'll turn on him for doing so.

She doesn't.

"You saved his life," he utters, placing his other hand on her now slumping shoulder. "I owe you everything."

She laughs bitterly at this but still does not face him.

"Yes, you do," she states matter of factly. "But there is only one thing I need." He swallows hard, not knowing what to expect as she turns to face him, the top of her head barely reaching his nose. "To forget."

It's then he sees it clearly, the raw pain in her eyes, and he reaches out to cup her face, he can't help it, can't help touching her, thanking her, reaching out to this supposedly mad woman who has just saved his son's life.

"So do I," he breathes, allowing his own pain to reach out to hers, wincing as deep losses meet head-on and caress in a realm that feels almost sacred.

Then she's in his arms, her lips hot on his own, mouths open, limbs tangling, breaths panting as steps guide them back into her chambers. Fingers make quick work of ties and straps, then it's nothing but flesh upon flesh, salt upon sweat, heat upon heat.

Souls and bodies are bared, legs are opened, and she pauses only to stare at his wrist for a fleeting moment, tracing his tattoo with a touch that borders on both fear and gentleness.

"Is something wrong?" he pants, growing harder for her by the second until he thinks he might burst onto her stomach.

"Only my life," she returns before an odd sort of laugh makes its way up her throat. Then she rolls him on to his back and sits astride him like a goddess, daring him to touch her in ways he'd never dreamed of touching a queen.

He takes her with his mouth, with his fingers, and finally guides himself into her with a pleasure so acute it borders on pain.

"Harder," she orders, squeezing his ass until he's practically bucking into her, and they ride each other into oblivion, allowing pleasure to sweep away what hurts, chasing release at a pace so desperate they collide into each other with cries that rival those of the thunder and wind.

She collapses on top of him, and he caresses her bare back, pressing her lines into memory as he wonders what in the name of the gods they've just done. Then she rolls off of him and walks naked to her window, gazing out at the storm that frames her silhouette in a wild, unfathomable fury.

"Leave me, thief. And take your boy with you."

Her voice is flat, lifeless, but he obeys instinctively, somehow knowing she'll turn on him like a wounded animal if he dares to disobey. He dresses quickly and turns for one last look, marveling at the perfection of her nudity and at the utter folly of fucking a queen. Yet he reaches into satchel and withdraws the handful of blooms-moonflowers he'd picked by the lakeside, careful not to bruise their petals as he deposits them on to her bedside table before making his way towards his son.

His memories of their time in her bed somehow vanish the moment his boots hit the ground just below her fortified walls. But she-the queen-she does not forget.

It will be a lifetime later before she tells him how she enchanted the blossoms he left beside her bed that night, how she slept with them under her pillow, how she wore them against her breasts as her curse swept them all away into a realm devoid of memory. He will marvel at the familiarity of her taste when she kisses him in the forest, at the remembered curves of her spine as they learn each other again in front of her fireplace, at lost time that gradually washes over both memory and sensation like the incoming tide.

And when they crash into each other yet again in her vault, he feels completion in the softness of her sex, in the dusky perfection of her nipples, in the fit of their bodies and the merger of their souls.

"I don't want to forget," she breathes into his shoulder as he holds her close in the aftermath of their lovemaking, pressing her nakedness into his own.

"Neither do I," he assures her, capturing her mouth yet again, this time with the promise of forever.


	35. Lost

_In fulfillment of a prompt received on tumblr requesting a Suliet-inspired drabble. Whether or not you ever watched Lost, I hope you can still enjoy this._

* * *

"So you're really going to leave me here?"

She sighs, staring out towards the water, the repetitive lapping of the waves against the dock beckoning her to get on the submarine and off of this god-forsaken island while the getting is good.

"You'll be fine," she states, feeling the wood give as he sits down beside her. "After all, you're not alone."

She won't look at him-she can't. Those dimples will crumble her resolve. God, they've been chipping away at it all afternoon, and she clutches what tattered remains of it she has left, reminding herself of all of the reasons she needs to turn her back on this man and just go home.

"You call Will, Tuck and John fit company?"

He's close, too close, his thigh so close to hers she feels the heat of it, his feet dangling alongside her own in an unspoken invitation to take a plunge with him into new and possibly choppy waters.

"They'll keep you entertained," she muses. This rouses a chuckle out of him, and he nudges her arm just so. She breaks then, she can't help it, and she turns her gaze in his direction, knowing the moment those eyes of his capture hers that he's winning their contest of wills.

"True," he agrees. "But who'll have my back?"

She swallows, trying to press down memory and sensation as months of mistrust, survival and half-ignored attraction begin to suck her into a whirlpool that promises no easy way out. His hand reaches out to her thigh and gives it a gentle squeeze, and her breath catches in her chest as the night breeze blows her hair in several directions at once.

"Give me two weeks," he continues, his hand remaining on her thigh. "Just two. And then if you still want to leave, I won't try to stop you."

His jaw works, betraying his own fear, and she realizes then just how badly he wants her to stay, that he actually needs her here with him. He's not working an angle as he's done in the past, not attempting to manipulate her for reasons unknown. The odd truth is that he trusts her, just as she trusts him, when not too long ago he'd considered her the enemy and she'd believed him to be a complete ass.

"Two weeks?"

Her voice is steady, even if her insides aren't, and he leans in and grins at her. Shit, when did that grin start getting to her like that, as if it were somehow attached to every nerve in her body? It used to raise her hackles, but now it just arouses.

"Two weeks," he reiterates. "What do you say, Hot Shot?"

She laughs at the terrible nickname he'd originally meant as an insult. But he's so close now, his nose mere inches away, his lips just there, his scruff just begging her to reach out and stroke it, and she knows he now uses it as a term of endearment, one that tickles her insides and clasps on to her heart. She wants to kiss him, to find out if that mouth of his is as delicious as she's imagined, to see if his arms will actually help put together all that's broken inside of her, to feel if the heart of this man is one she dare touch. But instead she leans back and inhales, trying to calm her emotions as she steadily fixes her gaze directly on him and utters four words that change the course of her life and make him smile outright.

"Alright, Robin. Two weeks."


	36. Mothers and Sons

_In fulfillment of a prompt received on tumblr requesting some TLC for Regina after Robin is attacked by the Fury. Heavy on Regal Believer and Dimples Queen._

* * *

She watches his chest rise and fall, half-afraid of blinking in case it were to stop, glued to his bedside in case there is damage to his body she can neither sense nor see. The easy rhythm of his breathing should lull her into relaxation, but she's taut to the point of snapping, and she straightens her spine as she reaches for her second cup of coffee, fuel necessary to keep her sharp during this self-imposed vigil.

"Mom. You need to rest."

She turns to face her son now standing in the door frame, not surprised to find Roland glued to his side, sucking his thumb as the child is prone to do when he's overtired.

"I thought you two were asleep."

Small feet rush to her side, and Roland practically propels himself onto her lap, burying his head into her chest as his arms wrap around her neck. She gathers him as close as she can, whispering assurances into his ear as she strokes his back through his soft, cotton pajama shirt.

"He's not going to sleep without you," Henry whispers, moving into her bedroom. Roland's sniffle tickles her shoulder, and she places a kiss into still damp curls that smell of baby shampoo. "Why don't the two of you just climb into bed with Robin?"

She hesitates, every muscle in her body wanting to stretch out on to her mattress and let it detach her from the worries of the day.

"Someone needs to keep an eye on him," she breathes, watching as Henry crosses his arms over his chest. "In case there's still something…"

"He's fine, Mom," Henry interrupts. "You know it. The doctors know it. And you were hurt, too. You need sleep as badly as he does."

"I'm fine," she insists as Roland winds his legs around her waist.

"That fury threw you against a tree."

"But it didn't try to suck my life away, Henry. It didn't leave me cold and practically…"

She stops, feeling Roland tense around her body at a word she calls back before it can solidify.

"Unconscious," she corrects, swallowing hard. "On the ground."

She and Henry stare into each other, each of them taking stock of this impasse they've reached.

"Then I'll watch Robin for you," Henry says with a shrug. "You and Roland can go sleep in my bed."

She's shaking her head before he can finish his sentence.

"That's what you're supposed to be doing," she reminds him. "Sleeping."

"I tried, but Roland can't settle down," Henry says, his arms falling to his side. "He doesn't want me right now. He wants you and his dad."

She feels tears on her neck, tears a child of Roland's age shouldn't be crying, and she rocks him back and forth in her chair, torn between the need to care for both the father and the son simultaneously.

"Please, Mom," Henry whispers. "For once in my life, let me take care of you."

Her heart melts at his concern as her arguments wither away under the weight of bone-crushing fatigue.

"Alright," she says, exhaling into the room. "But only for a little while."

A few minutes later, she's settled in his bed, snuggled up next to another little boy she will one day officially claim as her own, allowing this young man who'd somehow managed to grow up overnight to tuck her in and lean down to plant a goodnight kiss on her cheek.

"Come and get me when you get tired," she instructs, always the mother, always worrying over him, even when there's no need.

"I will," Henry states. "I promise. But only if you stay in bed and sleep."

She smiles at this, at Henry's stubborn streak, at this fusion of Charming hope and Mills pragmatism that defines this lanky teenager she loves more than life itself.

"You drive a hard bargain," she hums as Henry turns out the light and walks to the door, laughing as she hears him mutter _Who do you think taught me how? _Her eyes close the moment the door is shut, and she's asleep within seconds, blissfully and completely asleep, as is the curly-haired boy who snores softly into her chest, warming a piece of her heart he doesn't yet realize already belongs to him.


	37. Dig In

_Written in fulfillment to a prompt on tumblr for OQ: Ancient Egypt with sassy Regina. :) I hope you enjoy it!_

* * *

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Sweat dripped between her breasts, and she wished for the thousandth time that clouds would miraculously appear above them to dampen the unforgiving Sahara sun. The only blue in this desert, however, was to be found in a pair of eyes that looked all too pleased with themselves as they gazed back at her above an infuriating smirk. She replaced the cap on her canteen and stared back at the blasted nuisance of a man that riled her up everywhere. The wind splatted sand on her leg, but she refused to flinch, choosing instead to narrow her eyes as she faced off with him, all rolled-up shirtsleeves and yummy biceps he might be.

"This is my dig, Locksley," she stated, taking a step in his direction. If he thought he could intimidate her into leaving the burial site, he had another thing coming, this mister show-too-much-chest-by-leaving-a-few-buttons-undone historian "Go back to London and let a real archaeologist get back to work."

The bastard just grinned at her as he wiped his brow with his handkerchief, taking a step closer into her personal space.

"There's no need to hurl insults at each other, Dr. Mills," he countered, licking his lips a bit too slowly for her liking. "There's plenty of treasure for both of us unearth, I daresay."

His brows flickered in her direction, and she barked out an incredulous laugh.

"And what makes you think I'd like to share any of my treasure with you?"

He bit his lower lip, and she caught herself staring at his mouth.

"You didn't mind sharing your valuables with me the last time we met," he returned, making her feel even hotter than she had before. She tried to press back memories of what those teeth of his had done to her when they'd run into each other in Cairo two years ago after an evening of conversation, hummus, and too much alcohol, how his mouth had mapped out terrain that had both shocked and thrilled her, how she'd had to muffle her cries of pleasure into his mouth and shoulder, how she'd left teeth marks on his neck.

He caught her looking to see if the mark was still there and rubbed the spot gingerly.

"There's no evidence remaining," he said, leaning in just over her ear. "But we could remedy that tonight."

Her knees practically buckled, but she shoved him back, determined to stand her ground and not to let him get to her again.

"In your dreams, Locksley," she returned. "Now why don't you go pack up your things and move along to another site of interest."

He chuckled and shamelessly flashed those damned dimples in her direction.

"Why do that when there's so much that interests me right here, Dr. Mills?"

He reached out to cup her face, and strands of her resolve began to crumble into the desert sand. She was hot everywhere now, even in places she tried desperately not to think about, and a slow burn began to pulse between her legs as she remembered how glorious his face had felt in that very spot.

"You look flushed, Dr. Mills," he observed as he reached for his canteen. "Here. Help yourself to whatever you like."

"I can take care of myself, thank you," she insisted, opening her own canteen and taking a much needed sip of water. It was warm and somewhat metallic, but it was wet, the kind of wet she needed to help her push down the sort of wet that was distracting.

"So can I," he uttered. "But it's far more fulfilling when the right person is around to lend assistance, don't you think? Makes the payoff far more satisfying in the end."

She swallowed hard, doing her best to ignore the fact that her nipples were pressing against the restraints of her bra.

"Go play with your own tools," she ordered, earning herself a hearty laugh that carried across the dunes.

"I'd rather play with yours," he countered. She was fighting both a grin and arousal now and was thoroughly pissed off at the notion of being double-teamed by her own body.

"Why? Are yours not up to the task anymore?"

She tossed him a smirk practically bursting with satisfaction, and he stepped in close enough for her to feel an already half-baked erection as they both continued to bake under the sun.

"Mine tools are sharper than ever," he whispered, somehow making her shiver in the heat. "Top form, you might say."

"That's what you said two years ago," she countered, watching as his eyes dropped to the sand.

"As I remember, you had no complaints," he breathed, practically dripping with suggestion.

"As I remember, I had no chance to voice them," she shot back. "Since you disappeared before I had the chance to wake up."

He had the grace to look somewhat ashamed then, giving her a hard jolt of satisfaction.

"That was wrong of me," he admitted.

"No shit," she exclaimed. "Especially since you deliberately let me asleep so you could beat me to Dr. Anjabi's office to claim that map, the map to this site that was rightfully mine!"

He exhaled loudly and reached into his pocket, pulling out worn, brown paper he then pressed into her hand. She stared at it, her jaw dropping incredulously at this ridiculous and long-overdue gesture.

"Too little too late, Locksley," she said. "I'm already here, remember? And I found this tomb first-even without the map. I don't have to resort to thievery to get what I want."

Her chest heaved as he leaned in far too close, close enough for his body heat to practically knock her to the ground.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Regina, that I've been following you around for the past two years so I could return this to you properly? That perhaps I feel sorry for what I did?"

His nose bumped hers, and she couldn't breathe. His lips were too close, his sweat too personal.

"No," she admitted. "And I'm not sure I believe you-"

The rest of her statement was devoured by his mouth as he claimed hers in a fiery kiss, one full of tongue, arousal, and pent up passion, one that made her knees weak and her nipples hard. She melted into him, and his hands moved around to squeeze her ass, prompting her to moan into his mouth as his fingers began to stroke lazy circles over her derriere.

"Does that convince you?" he panted, his breathing as labored as her own as he drew back far enough to look her in the eyes. She couldn't formulate an answer-her head was too muddled, her nether regions too damp, so she shrugged, and he grinned as he stroked the side of her face in a gesture that felt intimate beyond words. "Come to my tent for dinner tonight," he whispered, allowing his fingers to slide into her hair just along her nape. "We can discuss how a partnership would benefit both of us-in more ways than one."

He backed away slowly and began his descent of the dune on which they'd been standing, and she watched him go, shaking her head at her own weakness when it came to this man. He was hard in all the right places, and kissing him felt like the best kind of sin, but he was arrogant and far too good at sneaking past her defenses.

The sun would set soon, temperatures would drop, and night would encompass this burial ground full of temptations, so she sighed as she strapped her canteen to her chest and reached into her back pocket to check the medallion once again. She sucked in air as she felt nothing there but material, not coincidentally in the exact spot where tricky fingers had been muddling her reason just moments ago. The medallion was the final key to the exact location of Amenhotep's tomb. It had taken two years of her life to track it down, had cost her half of her life savings, had required her to travel halfway around the world and back again to obtain it. But obtain it she had.

And now it was gone.

Hot anger rose from her toenails to her temples as she glared down at the thief who'd stolen more than a kiss, thus ensuring that she'd have no choice but to chase him straight into his tent. She swore under her breath as her nostrils flared and she uttered the name of the man who'd just bitten off far more than he'd bargained for tonight.

"Locksley.".


	38. Until That Day

In fulfillment of a prompt on tumblr requesting OQ and anything from the 1800's. :)

* * *

_**A widower and father in good health, of decent appearance and substantial means seeks a wife. She must be intelligent, in good health and be willing to become a mother to two young children. If interested, please write to the following address.**_

_Dear Mr. Locksley, _

_I am writing in response to your ad which ran in the Philadelphia Gazette two days ago in which you expressed an interest in finding a wife. My name is Regina Mills. I am unmarried, mother to a seven year old son, and have no remaining attachments to Philadelphia as both of my parents are now deceased. I would have no difficulty in acting as a mother to your children if you would be willing to act as a father to my son. I am in good health, am fairly well educated, enjoy reading, playing the piano and spinnet and do not shy away from hard work. _

_If you believe we could be compatible in marriage, please respond to this letter. If I hear nothing, I shall assume you have found someone else with whom to share your life. If that is the case, I wish you and your children great joy. _

_Sincerely,_

_Regina Mills_

* * *

_Dear Mrs. Mills, _

_I was honored to receive your reply to my query, and the fact that you are already a mother makes me believe that we might get on well together. You stated in your letter that your boy was seven years old. which means he would be the oldest and would therefore bear some limited responsibilities on the farm. My children are still too young to do so, for my son is three, and my daughter is but four months old. _

_I must be completely honest with you, Miss Mills, for it is only fair that before you accept my proposal you become aware of facts which may well cause you to decide against me. My children have two different mothers. Roland's mother was my beloved wife who sadly passed away hours after he was born due to complications during his delivery. But my daughter's mother is a singer who passed through Springfield with her touring company several months ago. I was weak and lonely and missing my wife, and the two of us engaged in the sort of relations of which I'm not proud. I thought I'd never see her again, but four months ago she showed up on my doorstep and handed me a baby she claimed to be my daughter. I have neither heard from nor seen her since, nor do I expect to ever hear from her again. So you see, my daughter is illegitimate, but I love her every bit as much as I do my son._

_I cannot fault you if you prefer to end our correspondence at this point, and I wish both you and your son much happiness no matter what you decide to do. _

_Yours truly,_

_Robin Locksley_

* * *

_Dear Mr. Locksley,_

_I must thank you for your honesty, and I am honored that you openly shared the truth of your daughter's parentage with me. As you have been so forthcoming with your past, it is only right that I respond in kind. When I say I am unmarried, it does not mean that I am a widow. I have never been married, not even to Henry's father. I was young when I met him, and I believed he meant to propose marriage to me, which was a rather foolish notion on my part as his financial circumstances were considerably better than my own. He became engaged to another woman far more suitable according to his family's standards just as I discovered that I was with child, and nothing I said could persuade him to change his course. My mother disowned me, but my father made certain that my son Henry and I were provided for financially, and he sent me to live with his sister, my aunt, in the city of Philadelphia where I have lived ever since. Here, it is assumed that I am a widow and that Henry's father was an honorable man. I pray that my son never has to learn otherwise. _

_If the truth of my past is too difficult for you to accept, I certainly understand and will not hold you to any sort of understanding as we have yet to reach one. However, if you would still like to consider pursuing marriage with me, please know that I shall never treat your daughter any differently than I would my own son. All children deserve to be loved, regardless of the failures of their parents. _

_May you and your children have a Merry Christmas. _

_Sincerely,_

_Regina Mills_

* * *

_Dear Miss Mills,_

_I hope you and Henry had a delightful Christmas. The children and I enjoyed our holiday immensely. _

_May I state just how sorry I am that you were treated so abominably by a man with no sense of honor or responsibility. A man who refuses to care for his own children deserves absolutely no regard, in my opinion, and I am thankful that your father saw to it that you and Henry were sheltered and cared for in the wake of such difficulties. The world can be harsh on unwed mothers, one reason I'm certain Elizabeth was left to my keeping by her mother. If Zelena had desired marriage, I would have honored her request, even though we barely knew each other, but she preferred the life she that she had, and I had no right to keep her from returning to it. Regardless of the circumstances of her birth, my life is all the richer because of my daughter's presence in it._

_I will say, however, that raising two children alone is a rather daunting task. I would not be able to do so if not for the assistance of our late pastor's widow who takes it upon herself to cook for us and care for the children while I am working the farm. I owe Mrs. Lucas a debt of gratitude I know I shall never be able to repay, but my children need more than a caregiver. Roland and Liza are in need of a mother, and I am becoming more and more convinced that that mother should be you. _

_If you are still willing, perhaps we could arrange for you and Henry to travel by railway here to Missouri in the spring. It would not be wise to attempt such a journey during the winter as we are having more snow than usual this year. After meeting me, if you are still inclined towards marriage, arrangements can be made. If not, I'll cover the cost of returning you and Henry to Pennsylvania. _

_If I may be so bold, in your next letter, would you describe your appearance? I'm only of average height, I'm afraid. My hair is fair but graying, and I prefer to wear a short beard. My eyes are blue, as are Liza's, but Roland's are as dark as his mother's, as is his hair. I fear we are both desperately in need of a trim, and I do promise to at least try and look presentable when you and Henry arrive in Springdale. _

_Yours truly, _

_Robin_

* * *

_Dear Mr. Locksley,_

_Spring sounds like a lovely time to travel, and it will be here before we know it. Henry and I actually spied a robin yesterday, and there is something so promising in that, wouldn't you agree? We can travel to Missouri in early April if such a timeframe proves to be agreeable to you. Of course, I'll await word from you before making any sort of arrangements._

_Roland and Elizabeth are lovely names, and I look forward to meeting your children. It's sounds as if Roland and I might resemble each other somewhat, for my hair and eyes are dark, too. Henry calls them black, and although that would be an accurate description of my hair, it is a bit of an exaggeration when it comes to my eyes. Henry's hair is brown, his eyes are green, and he has freckles that become more pronounced in the sun. If he doesn't stop growing, he will outgrow me soon, for I am not very tall. _

_Unfortunately, I have some gray hairs, as well. _

_Henry wanted me to ask about your farm, in particular about any animals you might raise or keep. I should warn you that he is especially excited about the possibility of horses and dogs. I myself wondered if you would mind if I brought along my spinnet. I find that playing it brings me great pleasure, and I have begun teaching Henry how to play. Perhaps I could also teach Roland and Elizabeth when they are older. _

_Sincerely,_

_Regina Mills_

* * *

_Dear Regina,_

_I hope you are not offended by my use of your first name. It's such a lovely name, one I find myself repeating to myself and to my children as the time for your arrival draws nearer. Roland is beside himself with excitement. He cannot wait to meet his new mother and big brother. I hope it is alright that he already thinks of the two of you in this manner, even though we are not yet married. I myself am growing excited as the day approaches, although I would be lying if I claimed not to be nervous. I am slightly terrified yet hopeful due to the circumstances of our impending marriage, and I suspect you may feel the same way. _

_Of course you may bring your spinnet. It would be lovely to have music in the house again. Although my late wife Marian could not play an instrument, she did love to sing, and Roland seems to be following in her footsteps, even without her example here for him to follow. He constantly sings the hymns from church and the songs that Mrs. Lucas has taught him. Perhaps you will be able to expand his repertoire. Of course Liza is too young to sing, but I must warn you that she is in possession of quite a healthy set of lungs. She can now sit up by herself and crawl, which keeps both Mrs. Lucas and me on our toes. _

_Do you by any chance know of a miracle cure for the pain of cutting teeth? If so, please pack it and bring it with you. I'll pay extra for it if necessary. _

_We've put a second bed in Roland's room for Henry, and Mrs. Lucas is making him his own quilt to cover it. I truly don't know how I would have survived the past few years without her, and I'm certain the two of you will get along splendidly. Liza's crib is still in my bedroom, but we could move it once you arrive if you prefer her to actually sleep in her nursery. It's been easier for me to have her in the same room with me, and there are many nights when Roland crawls in beside me after I'm asleep. I've been speaking to him about how he cannot continue to do this once you and Henry arrive, for it would be too crowded with three of us trying to sleep in one bed. He seems to be content with the fact that Henry will be with him, but I cannot promise that he will refrain from attempting to sneak into our bed like a thief in the night. _

_I hope you are not averse to the idea of us sharing a bed. I know we have yet to meet, but in desiring a wife, I am desiring a life partner as well as a mother for Roland and Liza. I promise to cherish you as a man should cherish his wife, Regina, and I shall protect you and Henry with my very life. You shall never experience pain at my hand, and I promise to never give you cause to fear me. That being said, I do desire companionship, and I hope that is something you desire, as well._

_I am still having difficulty believing we are but a few weeks away from meeting in person. It will be wonderful to finally put a face with the person with whom I am to share the rest of my life. I hope my face will not be too off-putting for you. Arrangements for your travel have now been made, and I hope the tickets are to your liking. The children and I shall be at the train station to meet you and Henry unless unforeseen circumstances should prevent us from being there. If that occurs, I shall of course make arrangements for you to be safely transported to my home._

_And please inform Henry that we have three horses and two dogs. _

_Yours truly,_

_Robin_

* * *

_Dear Robin, _

_I pray this letter reaches you before Henry and I do, but if it does not, no harm will be done. Of course it is alright for you to call me Regina. I'm glad you think the name is pretty, although I must admit that I have spent most of my life despising it. Perhaps I shall find it more pleasant hearing it voiced by you. _

_The tickets you purchased for Henry and me are more than satisfactory, and we are now in the process of packing what we need and selling what we do not. He wants to bring his old wooden train set so that he can share it with Roland, but I fear it will take up an entire bag itself. I'm bringing a doll for Liza, one I believe she may like when she grows a bit older, as well as a rattle Henry used when he was cutting teeth. That being said, I found that allowing him to gnaw on a cool, damp cloth helped ease his discomfort more than anything. Perhaps allowing Liza to do so will help her, as well. _

_As for our sleeping arrangements, I assumed that we would be sharing a bedroom and thus a bed, and I am comfortable with said arrangements. I also seek companionship from a spouse, and if I believed I needed to be fearful of being alone with you, I would certainly not be travelling to Missouri in three weeks time to become your wife. Perhaps we can decide the ultimate whereabouts of Liza's crib after Henry and I have moved in and are settled. I do not wish to disrupt the routines you have already established in your home, and I want Roland to feel welcome into our bed if he becomes frightened at night. Henry slept in my bed with me until he was four years old and decided that he was too old to share a room with his mother. That being said, I know we shall also require time alone as husband and wife, and I do think it is necessary for children to learn to respect certain boundaries. _

_Forgive me, I must end this letter now as my aunt is leaving to post a letter for herself, and I want this message to arrive in Springdale before I do. It is odd to know that the next time I speak with you, it will be in person. I hope I am not a disappointment, and know that I am eager to meet you and your children. _

_Sincerely, _

_Regina_

* * *

_Dear Robin,_

_I know it is silly to write to you when I shall meet you before I finish this letter, but writing to you and reading your letters have brought me such joy over the past several months that I decided to do it one last time. _

_So here you are-a letter you will more than likely never read. _

_I'm on the train now, and it's proving difficult to write with the constant rocking and Henry sleeping on my shoulder. But I'll do my best to capture my thoughts as they are at this moment. _

_I'm terrified. I'm elated. And I have no idea what to expect when we arrive in Springdale. _

_Actually, that's not true, for I have many expectations when it comes to you Robin. I expect that you are a loving father. I expect that you are a gentle man. I expect that you are well read and that you hold firm opinions but are still open to listening to the thoughts of those around you. I expect that you cannot cook but that you run your farm wisely and efficiently. I expect that I shall enjoy being married to you and I do hope that you will enjoy being married to me. _

_We are pulling into the station now, and Henry is beginning to wake up. I'm looking out of the window, wondering if you are here waiting for me, wondering if you were able to bring the children, wondering what you actually look like. _

_Wait. Is that you?_

_I believe it must be, for you are holding the hand of a little boy with dark curls-Roland, I assume. And there is Mrs. Lucas holding Baby Liza to her chest. Why didn't you tell me that she has red hair? She's beautiful, just perfect. _

_And there you are. _

_You are far more handsome than you let on in your letters. You are beautiful in fact, and wait-yes-I believe you just spotted me._

_And you're smiling._


	39. Restoration

_In response to a prompt on tumblr: Robin and Regina exploring intimacy for the first time after returning from New York with Zelena_

* * *

His touch is hesitant at first, too delicate, too safe, a lover's momentum held back by uncertainty, a man's penitent passion held in check.

She covers his hand now resting on her hip and moves it upward, cool silk bunching under his fingers as he swallows hard. His forehead touches hers, and she feels a sheen of cold sweat on cool skin.

"It's alright," she breathes, and he exhales on to her shoulder, his fingers colder than she's ever felt them. The contrast is stark to the heat she feels radiating from his groin, so she brushes his lips with her own, keeping her fingers on safe terrain. "We don't have to…"

"Yes," he mutters, his tone as desperate as his grip on her robe. "We do." Moisture pools in his eyes, and she wipes his cheek with her thumb, kissing damp stubble as her nose moves towards his ear. "I need…I need you."

Soft lips touch his earlobe in a declaration masquerading as a kiss, and he goes boneless as her palms stroke his bare arms, her whispered words a lifeline to redemption he clings to like a drowning man.

"You have me."


End file.
